You dress my soul with silk.
The crystal of a million stars
Glistens as I listen.
To the words whispered in my heart,
There is no other truth.
You dress my heart with gold.
Crowned by tenderness,
It roams free in a world of tales untold.
Ruby raspberries and opal tears,
Shape this indescribable bliss.
Forever I will hold you,
In the smile you have kissed onto my lips.
Forever I will dress you,
In the radiant beam you have inspired me.
By Fiona Cross
Monday, June 22, 2009
Poésies dans mon âme.
Three hundred ladybirds, crawling up my sleeve.
The sun skips a beat,
and my heart smiles at ease.
Long last the river
of what we will achieve.
Cherries blossom and the night is green.
Three hundred ladybirds, crawling up my sleeve.
By Fiona Cross.
The sun skips a beat,
and my heart smiles at ease.
Long last the river
of what we will achieve.
Cherries blossom and the night is green.
Three hundred ladybirds, crawling up my sleeve.
By Fiona Cross.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Poésies dans mon âme.
J’aiguise mon pinceau
Au poids de ses paroles.
Si écrire ne saura jamais me guérir
J’aurai au moins la trace tangible
De maux que je n’aurai pu imaginer
Dans la tempête des tourments,
Qui sait si mon esprit me ment.
On se retrouvera au firmament.
Aprés les larmes des pluies ,
La sagesse de la nuit.
De Fiona Cross.
Au poids de ses paroles.
Si écrire ne saura jamais me guérir
J’aurai au moins la trace tangible
De maux que je n’aurai pu imaginer
Dans la tempête des tourments,
Qui sait si mon esprit me ment.
On se retrouvera au firmament.
Aprés les larmes des pluies ,
La sagesse de la nuit.
De Fiona Cross.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Lignée d’étoiles
Le ciel dehors est parcouru de cotons humides et gris. La nuit tombe silencieusement sur Londres, cette ville qui parait il ne dort jamais. Je n’espère pas voir ni la lune, ni les étoiles ce soir. Pourtant, je ressens en moi une sorte d’euphorie que je ne saurai pas expliquer. Je me trouve alignée non pas sous une bonne étoile mais plusieurs étincelles de lumière qui me remettent a ma place. Alignées dans un ciel que l’on ne connaît pas vu de cette terre, elles m’ont fait rêver et voyager pour en arriver ici. Pourtant, je ne suis pas à l’abris des aléas de la vie. Je vis la même galère que tous mes frères et sœurs sur terre en période de récession. Le travail se fait rare. Le stress s’impose parfois contre nous et s’empare de notre vie contre notre propre volonté. Mais au fond de moi, je suis sereine. J’ai écouté et suivi les conseils soufflés par ces étoiles. Et aujourd’hui je suis récompensée par la meilleure des récompenses : l’amour. J’ai cessé d’être naïve il y a bien longtemps, mais cela ne pas fait cesser de croire que les contes de fées modernes existent, c’est juste à nous de le créer. Un conte n’est rien sans un personnage principal qui prend des risques, échoue, a peur, se mets sur le devant de la scène pour voir tous ses rêves s’accomplir. On ne voit pas de contes de fées sur des personnes qui n’y croient pas, qui restent chez eux tous les jours à attendre que quelque chose se passe.
Aujourd’hui la princesse, c’est moi. Je n’aime pas le rose, mon château est loin d’être construit, je n’ai pas de carrosse et mon empire est encore tout petit. Mais j’ai en moi le pouvoir absolu sur mon royaume, je l’ai trouve et je vais le garder, pas dans un coffre à pierre précieuses, mais là où je pourrai le voir tous les jours, cet amour.
Un prince noble a mes cotes, je me sens prête à mettre pleins feux sur mon sceptre qui n’est en fait d’autre que ma plume.
Que ce conte en inspire d’autre, ou il n’aurai pas de raison d’être. Il est loin d’être fini, mais à chaque page qui se tourne, une nouvelle leçon est acquise, un nouveau rêve est mis au monde. Il suffit de tendre la main et de s’accrocher à la première étoile qui passe...
Monday, June 1, 2009
The art of writing.
What killed Writing?
I have been struggling to write something that has been on my mind for a few weeks now and the reason to this has just occurred to me. It’s not a writer’s block. It’s the realisation of something worse than that.
Modern life has killed the art of writing. I won’t sound like a 22 year old saying this but you might see where I am coming from after reading this .
I have often heard that technologies and Internet where killing the art forms. When sound or special effects appeared on film, audiences felt it was the end of the 7th art. It’s imminent death is still a big debate now with the downloading of films and music. When printing appeared and copies of paintings could first be made, some predicted the end of the golden era for painting. Wither this was true or not, I am starting to realize that the art of writing has also been threatened and damaged by the arrival of the Internet and computers. Today, anyone can write. Blogers are everywhere, some even make a living out of it. It has turned into one big mechanical process with hardly any beauty to it. Just buttons on a machine that we press, to prove ourselves as part of the machine we live in, talking about the uninteresting and boring happenings of our mechanical lives.
I am not disassociating myself from the stream of perhaps undesirable wannabe writers invading the web our world now revolves around. I have a lot to learn and I think this might be my first lesson.
The art of writing isn’t only in the words but in the depths of the letters used, in their sounds and their shapes, their soft curves or harsh bends. Feeling a fountain pen or a paintbrush caress the paper we are using brings up emotions and feelings much stronger than when pressing our fingers at an incredible speed on a key board. Its almost like the length it takes to write those words stirring the true meaning of what we are writing and slowly rising it up to our hearts. It brings butterflies to your stomach and you might make you feel a little drunk, not unlike the actor before he enters the stage.
It makes me wonder what happened to what used to be unique and a skill acquired throughout the years.
I understand it has done great things to the world, has given us access to information and knowledge that we would not have had otherwise. I am not going to ignore that. But it does make me sad to see what we have also lost.
I personally find it easier to organise my own ideas if I write them on paper. I have a concrete trace of them. I almost always write my first drafts on paper before typing them onto my computer. So, the first thing I will do after writing this will be to take up a pen and paper and write this play.
They are still some amazing authors out there, ready to shake us with their words. But it has become so easy for anyone to write, that we also find some utter SHIT on the shelves of our bookstores
Poets and other artists of tomorrow, persevere. We strive to make a difference to people lives with the gift we have, lets not give place to those who just want to make themselves known.
I have been struggling to write something that has been on my mind for a few weeks now and the reason to this has just occurred to me. It’s not a writer’s block. It’s the realisation of something worse than that.
Modern life has killed the art of writing. I won’t sound like a 22 year old saying this but you might see where I am coming from after reading this .
I have often heard that technologies and Internet where killing the art forms. When sound or special effects appeared on film, audiences felt it was the end of the 7th art. It’s imminent death is still a big debate now with the downloading of films and music. When printing appeared and copies of paintings could first be made, some predicted the end of the golden era for painting. Wither this was true or not, I am starting to realize that the art of writing has also been threatened and damaged by the arrival of the Internet and computers. Today, anyone can write. Blogers are everywhere, some even make a living out of it. It has turned into one big mechanical process with hardly any beauty to it. Just buttons on a machine that we press, to prove ourselves as part of the machine we live in, talking about the uninteresting and boring happenings of our mechanical lives.
I am not disassociating myself from the stream of perhaps undesirable wannabe writers invading the web our world now revolves around. I have a lot to learn and I think this might be my first lesson.
The art of writing isn’t only in the words but in the depths of the letters used, in their sounds and their shapes, their soft curves or harsh bends. Feeling a fountain pen or a paintbrush caress the paper we are using brings up emotions and feelings much stronger than when pressing our fingers at an incredible speed on a key board. Its almost like the length it takes to write those words stirring the true meaning of what we are writing and slowly rising it up to our hearts. It brings butterflies to your stomach and you might make you feel a little drunk, not unlike the actor before he enters the stage.
It makes me wonder what happened to what used to be unique and a skill acquired throughout the years.
I understand it has done great things to the world, has given us access to information and knowledge that we would not have had otherwise. I am not going to ignore that. But it does make me sad to see what we have also lost.
I personally find it easier to organise my own ideas if I write them on paper. I have a concrete trace of them. I almost always write my first drafts on paper before typing them onto my computer. So, the first thing I will do after writing this will be to take up a pen and paper and write this play.
They are still some amazing authors out there, ready to shake us with their words. But it has become so easy for anyone to write, that we also find some utter SHIT on the shelves of our bookstores
Poets and other artists of tomorrow, persevere. We strive to make a difference to people lives with the gift we have, lets not give place to those who just want to make themselves known.
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