Category Archives: bachelard

Bachelard Reverie # 4

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This anarchy runs through my veins,

the fibers of my being  secrete rebellion and aspiration for justice.

These streets speak to me, evoking an emotion only known as

anarchy.

Anarchy for order is the way i see it.

This so carefully built up government,

a now corrupt establishment

controls the way the streets

perceive life.

But they don’t walk these streets,

we do.

I will not be a figure in your corporate presentation,

i will not be your future shopping scheme.

I walk these streets and they see what i see,

the more i walk these streets the more i hurt my feet.

I bandage my fresh, open wounds with Anarchy.

Week 8 Bachelard —Wheeler Ave.

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Wheeler Ave.

Her wooden bones ache with the arthritis of
winters countless embraces, snuggled up
with the cobwebs and forgotten frames,
she’s become lonely in her old age.

If you take the time and talk with her
you‘ll soon come to find, that once upon
a time she had a family, cozy nights listening
to the radio while a summer breeze floating
through the back door.

She fights the Alzheimer’s
of her own existence.

B – Reverie #4 Week 8

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Marisa Malone

Bachelardian Reverie #4

Winter qt. wk.8

Word Count: 100
“If there are ‘gorges’ (French = ‘throats’) in the mountains, isn’t it because the wind, long ago, spoke there?” In Bachelard’s understanding of poetry, a “light delirium makes the dreamer of cosmic reverie pass from a human vocabulary to a vocabulary of things.” He admires poetry in which “human and cosmic tonalities reinforce each other.”

Use this prompt to evoke through a poetic image a light delirium in which your nerves run along the “fibers” of your field study.

“How the object we dream helps us forget time and be at peace with ourselves!” -Bachelard (163)

….

My reveries run through me, wild with my spiral thoughts. My body is a constraint to dream through to make with to work from. My reveries trace the edges never the whole until I dream again and slip into that space where time lets go and my thoughts fall free like the words falling free on the page only there is never freedom in the page only tiny bursts of relief from my thoughts as they lock with an others. My reveries move through me with the gusts of traffic, pushing from my skin unfinished thoughts that tangle like leaves in the tree.

E – Reverie Week 8

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History of the Stars

Listen little one

And the stars will speak

Though the tales they tell

Aren’t pretty or pleasing

Earth’s history wasn’t always

Quite so bathed in blood.

But the stories of the stars

Tell of human history

And sometimes it seems

We could tell history

As bloody horror stories

Fit only to haunt nightmares.

No, not a pretty tale at all.

Not fit for you, dear child.

Scariest of all though, little one

Telling the tale will come to you

What you do, the stars will keep.

Whether you bathe the tale in blood

Or astonish the stars with peace

Is entirely up to you.

So sleep sound little one

This burden is not yet yours.

Some day, you will whisper prayers

Over the heads of your own sleeping children,

Wishing this burden wasn’t theirs

As I wish it wasn’t yours.

Good luck little one,

I hope you never need it.

L – Week 8 Reverie

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(Word count is 146 but 39 are Doors lyrics so I didn’t count them)
“‘The forest shivers under the caresses of the cristal-fingered delirium..’ That which is electric in the shiver—whether it runs along man’s nerves or along the fibers of the forest—has met a sensitive detector in the poet’s image.  Don’t such images bring us the revelation of a sort of intimate cosmicity?  They unite the outside cosmos with an inside cosmos”
(Bachelard, Poetic Reverie; 139)

A darkened stage
slow milling
murmuring
meanders watch
A silhouetted figure
swaying leather tight hips
to the high pitch of the organ
the beat from of the drum
fluid fingers stroking his guitar
smooth harmonica
He slithers to the mic stand
mouth in pout shaking out his curls
He stares out at the crowd before
he wails
WAKE UP!
His head falls forward
then is thrown back
AOOOOWW!
The music matches his energy
the words slip past dreamily from his lips
yet the meaning assaults your mind
Don’t you love her madly?
Don’t you need her badly?
Don’t you love her ways?
Don’t you love her as
she’s walking out
the door!
an eee-rot-tic politician
rules
this show
possessed by
an
Electric shaman
has you under his spell
Well I’ve been
down
so
goddamn
long!
That it
looks like
up to
meeeeeee

Are you awake now?

 

P – Bachelardian Reverie week 8

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“Who will help us descend into our caverns?”
The Poetics of Reverie, pg 149.

“It is an honor to be the wind
It is happiness to be the stone”
Alain Bosquet, as quoted in The Poetics of Reverie, pg 165.

“Each new object, well considered opens up a new organ of perception within us.”
The Poetics of Reverie, pg 166.

“As we tune that instrument, it is also tuning us.”
Douglas Leedy as quoted in The Seventh Dragon, pg xiii.

 

Thought is such an obscure cavern, and so is sound – both intangible, invisible. With crayons we can color in one moment of thought in to the outline of the brain, and we can make sounds jump across the paper in to ragged lines, but neither thought nor sound have been captured.  They remain elusive, too expansive to grasp in sight – we can only hold these intangibles in memory and imagination. We are bathed in the sounds of life and lust and intention and accident and gratitude and fear and love that all carry us, when we allow every movement to reach out and touch us, to taste us.

As we taste the oyster it tastes us.
As we write music, it writes us.
As we examine objects and passions they open new ways of seeing the world.
– By deeply seeing them, we learn how they see us.
– By entering their being, We see Us.

Ml – Week 6 Reverie

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Reverie Prompt:  pp 88, 93  Create your own reverie in response to Bachelard’s reverie:  “Reveries of idealization develop, not by letting oneself be taken in by memories, but by constantly dreaming the values of being whom one would love.”  Great dreamers dream their double.  Can you create a reverie to demonstrate how and why the passion of your current field study sustains you?  How is your “letter” (e.g., c is for cacao) your magnified double?  (E.g., While tasting Kallari chocolate can you re-member how C might idealize cacao?) “”Tell me whom you create and I shall tell you who you are.'” Suggestion: Use your reverie on an idealized passion to create a poem that evokes the sensation of how your passion is sustaining you.

Seven years old on my living room floor

I sat down and I wrote those first lyrics

Something new I knew I never done before

So excited for everyone to hear it

They laugh and suddenly crush my spirit

I sullenly return to my bedroom embarassed

Peer at the wall thinking of my appearance

It’s apparent that my words weren’t worth enough

So they’re disparaged

I look up at the dresser with my radio on

sit awake and wait for my favorite song to come on

Rap every lyric as if I wrote it myself

If you don’t know now you know

that’s what I know of myself

So one of those nights when I feel low

I turn the lights down low

Turn on some music and just go.

 

Ml – Week 5 Reverie

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Reverie Prompt:  pp 38-39, 47  Create your own reverie on the engendering of words in response to Bachelard’s reverie:  “Look out for the flamboires, little girl! Look out for the flambettes, booby!” In your experience does a romance language such as French do a “great service” by being a “passionate language” that has not wanted to  preserve a neuter gender, but rather multiplies occasions for choosing/coupling? What words, for you, “love each other?” Can you create a reverie to demonstrate words that, for you, have sexes re: the passion of your current field study?

 All the words I feel like love each other, rhyme with each other.
Some are similar but still complete opposites, like SILENCE and SIRENS.
If you throw LIGHTS in there, its a love triangle, even though LIGHTS isn’t a perfect rhyme, its close.
Some I feel are perfectly connected, like HEART and ART, and their children are like, HEAR and HURT, because those words are close to them.
I can’t really feel the sexes in any of them, but I know that they’re in love. Deeply, miserably in love. Even in the difference in their meaning and what they represent, they can’t survive without each other.
The rules say some words aren’t even supposed to be together but they fight for each other, like STAR and DARK, they don’t perfectly rhyme but they go together, they can even relate in meaning STARS light up the DARK sky.
In terms of my passion, this is my passion. Putting these words together, it’s like love connection. I thought of the word MICROPHONE so it’s options to pair up with are ALONE, ZONE, HOME, SHOWN, and even SMOKE. And I could put it with just one, or I could string them all together.
Like, the MICROPHONE SMOKES when i’m ALONE in my HOME ZONE rap skill SHOWN embedded and HOME GROWN. Its like GROWN was a special guest that nobody knew about and just kind of showed up but still fit in well.

“A Whole Vanished Universe” -R week 7 Bachalard

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“A Whole Vanished Universe”

There is a certain smell that clings to these old places,
it isn’t something easily defined by word or rhyme
it is something particular to that time.
It evokes those secret places
that hide within the many faces
Hanging upon the wall. It would be a crime
to forget and so we remember one more time
all the haunts, the musty wood, the shoe leather, the loss of faces.

Cedar bones pile upon the shores
their smell seeping into the memories of an
old logging town, it’s in the blood now.
The heart that lies in these old stores
Wafts up and into the lungs where it began
a journey back, back to the sweat of brow.

Q- Nana i ke kumu “look to the source” Reverie. week 7

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“Solitude,my mother,tell me my life again” – O.V. de Milosz

Plumeria.

My quilt is not made of real fabric, no. My quilt is made out of so much more than that.

My quilt is made out of place, out of my

olefactory senses.

My quilt is a representation of my 21st year, being realized on a day by day spirit journey to the Island in the middle of the ocean, that I have so many fond memories of,

Plumeria.

Childhood.

Kauai, is the landscape of my dreams. For years, this place has been my home. I have always tasted the papaya.

Where the dirt is red, where the rain is hard, where I have no plan.

I am at the home birth homestead, where the mothers have taken me in to their home, but I still have more to figure yet. I feel like I have been gone forever, now that the sun is out, and my skin is opening up. Lots of smells remind me, of me. HERE. on Kauai.

 

For now, I will follow my bliss, I will not be afraid.

I am a strong person, I am not afriad.

I am afraid, to stick my thumb out on the road.

I am afraid, I am not afraid.

I am embarking on the wisdom keeper, far away, learning adventure.

I have no Idea where I am going, I am afraid, I am not afraid.

Plumeria.

Colonialism. I am not afraid. I am not scared, I am not afraid.

“I don’t know how long I am going to be here” as if that is something that is positive, that isn’t scary. I am not afraid.

Plumeria, and lots of rain, and crying babies, and roosters, and birds.

Plumeria

I pray, I pray, I pray

SUN BATHE:

Im gonna turn brown.

Im gonna breathe.

Im gonna touch soil.

Im gonna find heart.

Im gonna be active.

Im gonna eat well.

Im gonna laugh hard, dance hard

Im gonna play

with plants, with animals, with people,with babies

Im gonna  “surrender to the flow”

Im gonna embrace the weather extremeties

Im gonna listen

Im gonna pray for sun

Im gonna find a grandma to hold my hand and plant the seeds and harvest the fruits

 

MOON BATHE:

I am going to pray

I am going to deepen

I am going to calm

I am going to hold

I am going to listen

I am going to be artful, poetic

I am going to release

I am going to find a teacher

I am going to find love

I am going to know my cycle

I am going to breathe

I am going to dream

I AM GOING TO THRIVE.

IAM.

plumeria.

Pass the aloha, humid, rainy, wet, sun, skin

PLUMERIA.

don’t forget to breathe, don’t be afraid

to be alone. Don’t be afraid.

sweet nectar, plumeria.

hawaii.

MANA/MAMA

today I spent the day with Linda, mama, my grandma.

She has something up her 72-year-old sleeve, I trust.

I am not afraid.

I am alone.