blank slate, it is
it bears the question
of what could be
drawn or etched
and paint a yellow haze;
could that be it?
a painting, of you and me
perhaps never drawn;
only erased from existence,
from that medium-sized canvas
of what could be;
it bears the question,
blank slate, is it?
Poem written for this prompt:
Poetry is an act of appreciation. With our increasingly busy schedules, we lose our ability to appreciate. Poets must resist the modern temptation to overlook what holds meaning in our lives. Identify something in your surroundings—a rusted hoe draped in spider webs, an unfashionable dress abandoned by time, a wine cork buried in a drawer of unpaid bills—and write a poem that appreciates these lonely items.
“I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it. But I know that I cannot know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to know it. What can a meaning outside my condition mean to me? I can understand only in human terms. What I touch, what resists me – that I understand. And these two certainties – my appetite for the absolute and for unity and the impossibility of reducing this world to a rational and reasonable principle – I also know that I cannot reconcile them. What other truth can I admit without lying, without bringing in a hope I lack and which means nothing within the limits of my conditions?”—Albert Camus: The Myth of Sisyphus (via fuckyeahphilosophy)
“To be a photographer, one must photograph. No amount of book learning, no checklist of seminars attended, can substitute for the simple act of making pictures. Experience is the best teacher of all. And for that, there is no guarantee that one will become an artist. Only the journey matters.”—Harry Callahan (via visual-renascence)
A shimmer of light; That presumable extension Of the concrete.
Bloody veins and Breathing lungs, No light can tear apart.
Elusive answers To which I may be- Part flesh, part glow.
— A response to a prompt: Collisions spark creativity. Colors collide to form new colors. Opposing ideas create an inspired argument. Friction makes fire. Write a poem that combines two unrelated entities in your life: Imagine your birth certificate under a decaying woodpile, your mother-in-law clenching spark plugs, a bluebird singing in your freezer. Push your imagination. The words will follow.”—Jawhara Safi (myself)
In the middle of a family gathering right now, I cannot picture myself grabbing a plate and serving myself some “molokhiya” made with the meat of a lamb I was playing with last night.
Yes, it’s religious and all, and part of our tradition. But, I still do have a heart. How on earth do you expect me to be fine with chopped up meat floating in my dish of a creature I had befriended a night before? Ugh. It is just impossible.
Don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of meat and food, but I would rather be served meat without having to know or “see” the origin of it.
I leave you with these thoughts and bid you a wonderful evening with cute little lambs in your stomach.
so to write, bleed. bleed with all your heart. spill your soul on that blank piece of paper staring back at you so coldly. scream with your words. let the echo of what you write down reach the ends of the universe. but to do so you must bleed first. so, go ahead and bleed.
“Art will not create social change, but it can provoke thought and prepare us for change. Art can tell us what we do not see, sometimes what we do not want to see, what we do not realize about life, about sensitivity and crassness. What is ordinary may be seen as spectacular. What seems ugly may appear quite beautiful and vice versa. What seems trivial may become important depending upon how it is presented by the artist.”—Elizabeth Catlett
"Yes, it’s true. I am the fucking hopeless romantic they claim I am. Yes. To hell with you finding this out. I am that one who is willing to give you the world. I keep pushing back the surges of radical change within me so you do not see the true color of my heart. But I have failed. I admit. After all this time, I have failed to hide it. God knows how hard I tried to keep my heart tucked in a wooden box. But you kept fucking knocking till you broke down all doors and barged in like you own that space. It is in your eyes that I see my universe. Since my mind befriended yours, I have come to love all that is you. But. There’s always that but that butts in. You see the moon in its place and the universe taking its course. You refuse to take charge of those doors that you broke down. So, yes. To hell with you finding this. I am the fucking hopeless romantic they claim I am. Yes, it’s true," she told him, as she tried to fight back that single tear that escaped her shielded strength, while he just stared back in silence. He picked his stuff and without a single word turned to the door and left just as he first entered - with no regret.
“Negativity is the enemy of creativity. Negativity, like stress and depression, squeezes the tube of creativity, so it’s money in the bank to meditate each day. It serves the work and the life.”—David Lynch (via photographsonthebrain)