Baci n. 08 (version 2)

Sometimes a single thought, quote, person or word inspires more than a single piece.  Sometimes they inspire great works, and sometimes they inspire great moments.  This is probably neither of those, but it still serves as an example of the multiplicity of thought that can be found, and how even they same artist can make an entirely different piece from the same source material.  Below is Baci n. 08 (version 2).  Enjoy

Baci n. 08 (version 2)
"Passion colours everything it touches."
B. Gracián

There is nothing quiet about passion,
Even if he who suffers it does not speak,
It burns as a wild fire through his mind.
He feels it in ev'ry beat of his heart
Making him restless even as he goes
Eager to prove to all the world his love.

And it is worse for he away from his love
When there is no hope to relieve the passion
Which haunts him every which way he goes.
Listen; you will hear it when he does speak
For the love that burns deep within his heart
Is the same that's reigning over his mind.

Truth be told, he's going out of his mind;
The impossibility of his love
Appeals to the romantic in his heart.
Nor would he do away with his passion,
A truth he might never be able to speak
That follows him where ever it is he goes.

It does not matter, either; where he goes
Because the world resonates in his heart.
With echoes of all that his heart does speak.
He's witnessing the world through eyes of love
Where the smallest things ignite his passion
And tests the very limits of his heart.

Every lover must have a strong heart
To carry that burden where e'er he goes;
Being taunted by such absent passion.
Hope and love are trials upon the mind,
No matter how boundless one feels his love,
Tis an impossibility to speak.

But it is the only thing of which he would speak
Because it is the only thing left in his heart,
Hoping beyond hope there is truth in love.
Where passion journeys, his doubt also goes,
Creating violent storms in his mind
That only exists 'cause there is passion.

And so passion makes it useless to speak
All that's on his mind. Yet; his burning heart
Eagerly goes 'cause his passion is love.


Baci n.08

I realized as I was setting down to write this morning, that I haven't actually talked a whole lot about the Sestina project in general.  The group as a whole is called the "Bacio Sestinas".  Baci is the Italian word for kiss, but Bacio is also a kind of chocolate truffle topped with a hazelnut, and back when I lived in Colorado, I worked at Between The Covers and we sold these candies. Inside the wrapper where these love quotes, and I sort of collected them and have been using them as the inspiration point for most of the sestinas in the collection.

On another point of interest, I was first introduced to the sestina via Neil Gaiman in one of his short story collections.  It is an old Italian form of poetry with a very specific pattern.  Generally, they are written in iambic pentameter, though I don't, but the important and interesting bit is that the follow is the repeating pattern of end words. It's a fun and challenging form that I enjoy.

In a continuation of last week's theme, may I present to you "Baci n.08"

Baci n. 08
"Passion colours everything it touches."
B. Gracián

Unloved, none perceived her as a beauty;
A face made unsightly by blemishes
And a figure that's not to current taste.
Were her eyes the wrong colour, the wrong shape?
Did her inner fire not burn as brightly?
Is the world really made to be so blind?

And was it the world that made her, too, blind.
Or popular perception of beauty
That dimmed a fire that should burn more brightly?
She sees but a collage of blemishes
And curses god and devil for her shape;
A beast of fetish, not a thing of taste.

Yet love bears to all a different taste
That ever sees that to which the world's blind
'Cause it is of unfamiliar shape.
True love composes for itself beauty
Where the world descries blemishes
In a person who would burn more brightly.

And so she will ever burn more brightly
When knows how false the world's ignoble taste
Which cannot see beyond her blemishes.
She by being loved, is not longer blind
And can see in herself lies a beauty
That is true beyond any concern for shape.

When she learns to love herself, her shape;
When passion's fire burns ever more brightly
Will recognize within her true beauty.
She looks and sees a world born without taste:
The loveless world no longer strikes her blind
For she perceives perfection's blemishes.

The popular sees only blemishes
Not the irony of its own sad shape,
Because vanity strikes its own self blind.
With this knowledge she will burn more brightly
Guiding the world to a true sense of taste
And a deeper knowledge of real beauty.

Perceive that beauty is false blemishes,
A tongue without taste; beast born without shape,
For when passion burns brightly, love is blind,


the pen returns...

So, it seems I have been away from this far too long.  I think I got lost somewhere along the way, and felt like I was running out of things to share.  This isn't entirely true, of course.  I have many more things I want to present, but I've never been entirely sure how I wanted to go about it.  I've also been a bit scared of the length of some of my pieces, as they are exactly as long as they need to be, but perhaps too long for the medium presented.  Other works, such as my plays, I'm not sure how I want to go about presenting them; in what form and format; by what ways and means, and I've been skittish of letting them have such free reign of the internets as to let them go.  But they also do no good just sitting on computers and flash drives that have the unfortunate tendencies of failing.  So perhaps I should release them into the wilds.  We'll see.

Now, though, to reintroduce myself to the blog-o-sphere, I will return to one of my other projects: Women in Myth.  To follow is a long piece called, "The Nixie of the Mill-pond" which is an adaptation of an old folk tale, and embellished with semi-historical nonsense.  It is possible that this is not its final form, but in the meantime... enjoy.  Did I mention it's long...

The Nixie of the Mill-pond

Twas during the in-between times
Ere Christ had risen to glory
Before the fall of druid lore.
Twas a time when Rome still flourished
When mighty Jupiter still reigned
From that high Capitoline hill.
In a quiet Gallic village,
Much ignored by Roman power
A miller still minded the stone;

Minded as his father before.