Tag Archives: Poetry

Richard Armitage, a fellow dreamer

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There was a discussion about the importance of holding onto dreams over at Twitter today and I shared these words from one of my favorite poems by Langston Hughes. I decided to do a bit of artwork to go with the words. And naturally, thoughts of my favorite actor, a man gifted with the ability to dream and dream big (and work hard to make those dreams come true).

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Todd Garner  producer for Richard’s next film project “Black Sky,” actually Tweeted this quote below today. And it reminded me of Richard, too, and that sort of Zen-like aura he often seems to exude.

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How wonderful it was to see Richard’s dream of playing Thorin come to fruition this year as he gave such a compelling performance, truly claiming the character as his and his alone. Richard certainly put that vivid imagination to very good use.

How proud his family and close friends must be, as those of us who have never met him are as pleased and proud as punch over his accomplishments. Hooray for my fellow dreamer! Here’s to many more dreams coming true.

Richard Armitage is poetry

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Richard Armitage is poetry. He is poetry in his stillness, and in motion. He is poetry aloud and in the moments of silence. He is poetry in the laughter and the pain, the joy and the sorrow. He is poetry in his humanity, in all its flawed beauty, its imperfect perfection.

His characters become flesh and blood and bone to me. I see through their eyes, through his eyes, and journey with them. And even when they behave in disappointing and even abhorrent ways I cannot wholly condemn them.  Because I am human, too, and full of my own foibles and failings.  

I rejoice with them in those happy moments.  I grieve when their end comes. They have become friends, allies, fellow travelers on this fascinating and difficult and unpredictable journey. It is so hard for me to say goodbye that I simply have to Love them into Being.

The artistry of Richard Armitage touches my heart, my mind and my soul. Yes, he is a physically gorgeous man,  and I gladly celebrate all that distinctive masculine beauty.

 But were it not for the poetry I see within him, in the way he moves and speaks and simply is; were it not for the intelligence, the sensitivity, the humor, the intensity, the tenderness that I see in his face, his eyes, his smile, his hands, his being, all that outward beauty would be nothing but an empty shell.  Pretty to look at but ultimately forgettable.

For me, he is unforgettable.  He makes me more fully realize what it means to be human. To be humane.

Richard Armitage is poetry . . .

Screencaps courtesy of RichardArmitageNet

Dreams and Castles in the Air

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Nearly 1,300 words written in the last couple of hours. This is good. I just might get the revision of the revision of my novel completed by late October as hoped.  Life has had a way of “happening when I’ve been busy making other plans,” so we shall see. 

Still, I am feeling hopeful. Maybe it’s the freshly shampooed hair. The fact Puddie is still hanging in there (although I can’t believe she turned up her charming little nose at the small dish of Blue Bell homemade Vanilla ice cream her daddy served her earlier. She really isn’t feeling well).

Time for a little poetry, methinks, courtesy of American poet, playwright and social activist Langston Hughes.

English:

English: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

We all need dreams, no matter what our ages or circumstances may be. We need our castles in the air.

courtesy of amarettogirl.com

I think we can safely say Richard Armitage has built a solid foundation for his particular castles in the air.  And we reap the benefits. Long may he keep building.  Thank you, Richard, for never giving up on your dreams and aspirations.

Aside
Love is risky. It makes us vulnerable, and that can be scary. Love can open us to the possibility of rejection, disappointment, loss, to heartache and heartbreak.
And yet, what is life without love? Love for our soul mates, family, friends, pets. Love enriches and inspires.  It liberates.  It teaches. Love makes us fully human. It can cost us everything. But without it, we are nothing.
Touched by An Angel
We, unaccustomed to courage, exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple
 and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.
Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies,
old memories of pleasure, ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity,
In the flush of love’s light we dare be brave
And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be.
Yet it is only love which sets us free.
Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It is only love which sets us free

A favorite poem . . . warning, it’s angsty

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This is a poem written by one of the most noted American poets of her day, Edna St. Vincent Millay(1892-1950). Millay was not only a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer of verse, she was also a playwright and a feminist. Having read her biography, I can also say she had a pretty fascinating, if rather tumultuous, life.

Photograph of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Photograph of Edna St. Vincent Millay (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think of the old saying about time healing all wounds, and I know it’s simply not true. Some wounds, losses, pains stay with us forever.  They may diminish to some degree, plague us less; the scar tissue forms on our pysche and the raw ugliness is mercifully relieved. But they never quite heal completely.

I also find myself thinking of Sir Guy and how he suffered over Marian’s death. I’ll never believe he did it in less than a moment of  sheer temporary madness. A horrifying moment when all his dreams, hopes and plans died before his very eyes . . . he lived on with the guilt and regret, shame and pain.  But I think a part of him died before that fateful encounter with Vasey and Isabella in the castle. Part of him died with Marian in the desert that day.  And that’s something for which I can never quite forgive Marian, as blinded as she was by her loyalty to King Richard and manipulated by Robin.   Thank goodness our Sir Guy ultimately found redemption!

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Here Is A Wound That Never Will Heal, I Know

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,

Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,

But of a love turned ashes and the breath

Gone out of beauty; never again will grow

 The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow

Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath

 Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath

Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.

That April should be shattered by a gust,

That August should be levelled by a rain,

I can endure,

and that the lifted dust

Of man should settle to the earth again;

But that a dream can die, will be a thrust

Between my ribs forever of hot pain.