Hoppipolla by: Sigur Ros

The moment takes place during “Hoppîpolla” by: Sigur Rôs This song has a very uplifting, inspiring feeling about it. It never fails to elevate one’s spirit.

This is the closing moment, at the peak of all that is lost and crumbled and seems to have no way of being fixed.

Sliding right into the moment the song quietly begins after a slight moment of silence.

Her slender fingers slide along the clean window seal staring down the rain splattered glass. Her eyes, they are filled with sorrow as she gloomily looks into the window. Rain pours. She expects to see nothing, to feel nothing. Everything is wrong. But suddenly, a figure seems to emerge from the smudges of rain (the song begins now). She sits up. Could this be? Her face is pushed against the window until finally, she understands.Withdrawing her frozen fingers from the cool glass, she scurries from our view. Now we see the man, walking through the gushing rain, toward her doorstep. He stops. He knows this is right, but somehow a sliver of doubt stabs his mind. Maybe it isn’t right. He hesitates. Next the door bursts open, wide open like a gaping mouth of distressed hunger. The rain. The man. The woman. They stop a foot away from each other. A glimmer of hope and a hint of sorrow mixing in their eyes. Her eyes, his eyes. They are quizzical until suddenly, with a shrug from him and a shrug from  her, they meet each other. The hands embrace, the lips touch toughly and then the rain is upon them both. It gushes and gushes sliding over their tangled embrace. Now they pull away for a moment, racing around covered earth faster than their heartbeats. Twirling, dancing, splashing, living. They know they are free. Their feet are bare, toes are embedded with mucky earth and sink into the pillows of puddles. He lifts her, spins her, kisses her. Then the thunder roars heroically, the sun begins to peek into view eventually caressing them all into its slender, radiant arms. The earth sparkles from its dazzling new wardrobe of liquid, glints off the lovers eyes until they’re lost again in another kiss, this time for good.

The moment pulls out, up past the couple, high past the stormy clouds and fades into the sun and the song plays until the end has come. (k.b.)

You Are Not Invisible To Me

September 2, 2014

7:07PM

Sunset, Sundress

YOU ARE NOT INVISIBLE TO ME

By: Kiersten P. Benson

(1997- )

I see your eyes and wonder how a shade of blue could ever 

Be so stirring.

It's untempered, like the sea. 

They are restless. 

Then the lips.

You speak words that melt inside my hands.

Words that drip from your mouth,

Catching on my tongue.

Igniting light into darkness.

You are the song that won't leave my head.

The broken end of a song

That I both adore and curse all at once. 

My sweater snags on the thought of you.

Fraying, ripping, tearing.

An elegiac pigment. 

Sinking, I'm drenched in silence.

Waist-deep in thought. 

My fingers are just above the rim of nothingness.

You glance, but then again you see.

It's in your eyes, dear one. 

It's in your eyes. 

If only you knew that my heart is like my backpack,

Tight around my shoulder-blades. 

I keep it locked up to silence all the hunger.

All the pain. 

But I'm just an ordinary human, darling. 

I have eyes that flicker when you pass, 

A heart that paces when you look. 

My veins are red beneath my head phones. 

But how destructive we are.

Humans.

We always like to smudge.

To smear and soil and scrape. 

Curious lips are my trouble. 

But you, oh you darling. 

You are my problem. 

I deny it.

But truth is, I'm falling in love with you.

One

.

Tragic

.

Piece

.

At

.

A

.

Time

.

Then all at once, liking you 

Collapsed into loving you.

And it is beautiful 

And terrifying at the same time like

The stars themselves.

And though the white fire can't reach us, 

You're not invisible to me, darling. 

And oh, what you see when you finally

Stop looking. 

(k.b.)

September 17, 2014

4:41PM

Wednesday 

My Poetry "Kick"

MY POETRY "KICK"

KIERSTEN BENSON

(1997--20--)

IS IT WRONG that I now have this profound, ubiquitous love for poetry and all things like it? I now find the very straying thoughts wandering from my head searching for it, looking under tables and the small spaces between the couch and carpet.  My food is no longer food, but words aligned into poetry. My drink? Its existence. I wake up to hear its slumberous song tapping on my window and no long drift asleep to solace, but to magic; to passion wringing out on a small clothing line draped with nothing more than words and aestheticization. Upon rediscovering a book sent to me inside a packaged box months before, my passion for poetry was ignited. "The Romantic Period" is the name (edited by: Albert Granberry Reed)  of my kindle. The admiration I have for it seems to be indescribable. I want to sleep with it, caress it, bury it inside my soul and at the same time wish nothing more than to simply set it down and stare out the window hoping all I've read will somehow nestle inside me and stay there. 
It makes me think. 

And then there is another book drifting into my thoughts. It is any book with which poetry inks its pages. It is every word that intrigues my inner poet and fascinates my inner guilelessness. But tell me dear, poet, how your words can strike me so? Tell me how you can smite my heart and spirit with a few dancing words and then proceed to do it over and over again? 
Tell me. 
Because it is agony to leave me beyond curious.  
But going back to the wondrous book I found, on a day I had quite a bit of time to slaughter, I read my dear little book with my hands gripped quite tightly around it and then nearly fell off the warm bench with which I sat upon after finding a poem that not only spoke my name.
But sang it.

(Elaboration:)  

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850)

LUCY POEMS

STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN

STRANGE fits of passion have I known:

And I will dare to tell,

But in  the Lover’s ear alone,

What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day

Fresh as a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,

Beneath an evening-moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;

And, as we climbed the hill,

The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot

Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

Kind Nature’s gentlest boon !

And all the while my eyes I kept

On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof

He raised, and never stopped:

When down behind the cottage roof,

At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a Lover’s head !

“O mercy !” to myself I cried,

“If Lucy should be dead!”

(But then my dear song continued and here is what it sung:) 

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

SHE dwelt among untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love.

A violet by mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye !

--Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me !

I  TRAVELED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN

I TRAVELED among unknown men,

In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England ! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

‘ T is past, that melancholy dream !

Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;

And she I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed

The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy’s eyes surveyed.

THREE YEARS SHE GREW

THREE years she grew in sun and shower;

Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A Lady of my own.

“Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

“She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,

And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

“The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the Storm

Grace that shall mould the Maiden’s form

By silent sympathy.

“The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

“And vital feeling of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this  happy dell.”

Thus Nature spake--The work was done--

How soon my Lucy’s race was run !

She died, and left to me

This health, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

A SLUMBER  DID MY SPIRIT SEAL

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force,

She neither hears nor sees;

Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850)

LUCY POEMS

Did you hear it? Did you hear the song ringing so clearly to my soul? Of course you did not, that would defeat the purpose of it being my own song, but still I shared it. When you share something that is so obviously yours it can be difficult, but it also can be defining. Giving away a piece of you shows what courage you can have to trust a person to see it, hold it, and then appreciate it. My song, my dear "Lucy Poems" did that for me the moment I began to read them. And then it ended as sweet as a song bird's song drifting from the tree it sat upon and to the sky and it was then that I substantially realized poetry moved me. Poetry picked me up, stole my soul and sung a song only I could here all at once. And it was in that unforgettable moment that my profuse love of poetry began.
I'm telling you, compelling even, the moment you open a book
Magic Happens.  

August 30, 2014

Saturday 

3:20PM

On an over-cast, 

Cheerful day

   

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem.
Seize the Day!
--The Dead Poets Society
Aug. 23. 2014
2.24am

O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

What Am I?

KIERSTEN BENSON 

(1997-20--)

STAG

THE KING of solace,

Grazes in the wood.

A crown of timber rests upon his head.

Damp earth quells below him. 

Deep roots bow within him.

Yet the sky is not his victim.

Trees and life become his cloak.

He carries nothing else.

A steady traveler, he becomes. 

His call is composed,

The film of white he'll never see.

A captive to a lonesome heart, he remains.  

No army bears his name.

Misting breath swirls as his flag.

He is brave, yet he stands alone. 

His enemies whisper in the dark.

The music of the forest entices,

Trembling through his pulsing slippers.

Marrow and freedom meet silently.

Woodlands create cathedrals.

As always, he kneels to no one.

His eyes trace your outline, 

Though he sees far behind you. 

Forevermore, he beckons no one.

Silence is his cradle. 

The stars are his companions. 

Forever the King of Solace, he remains. 

(k.b.)

August 7. 2014 

8.06PM // Thurs.

THE STAG'S CROWN

"WINGS"

August 7, 2014
Thursday
1:03PM

"Wings"

"Here we go," He whispered. 
But, I didn't want to do it. 
Here we stood, rooted to a cathedral
more regal than the sky. 
Here we stood, staring at the apostles
hoping they could stop us,
snatch our broken spirits and
make us whole.
Or perhaps the wind could stop us, 
breathe us away to another time, 
a better time than where we existed now.
Make the world forget us.
But it wouldn't.
The lights go down, 
I just want to be yours. 
Not the skies. 
These walls will be my anguish.
My heart begins to thrash.  
"The night will be your rapport,"
Only my thoughts can save me now.
We begin to rapture in unison.
Air agitates around us, enclosing
the world we knew, to nothing. 
"One more step into the unknown,"
He doesn't see my tortured soul. 
No one ever did. 
The escaping sunlight illuminates our skin,
clouds begin to whisper. 
Night comes creeping in.
He takes my hand, my thoughts slip away
and then he thinks of me. 
"Ready,"
A part of me is.
"Just one breath,"
Then we fall. 
My lungs betrayed me.
One small step and then 
we fell. 
If only these wings could fly... 
Somehow they do.
My fingertips dance with the spirit of freedom.
My hair ignites the sky. 
"Wings aren't meant for flying," He spoke, above the heavens.
I wonder why, in a moment of fierce freedom, 
why he cares to speak. 
"They're meant for seeing,"
They always were. 

(k.b.)