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Joseph E Bird

Let's talk about reading, writing and the arts.

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art

Painting with a different palette.

Stone Bridge in a park setting
Cherokee Park, Louisville, Kentucky – Designed by Frederick Law Olmsted

He paints with lakes and wooded slopes;
with lawns and banks and forest-covered hills;
with mountain sides and ocean views.

Daniel Burnham, speaking of Frederick Law Olmsted

In 1893, Chicago architect Daniel Burnham was working hard to finish the design of the Chicago World’s Fair, also known as the Columbian Exposition. It spread over 600 acres with more than 200 buildings and attracted some 26 million visitors in its first six months. Working with Burnham was Frederick Law Olmsted, the father of modern landscape architecture.

By the time they collaborated on the World’s Fair, Olmsted had already designed New York’s Central Park and thousands of other projects around the country.

In the mid-19th century, industrialization sparked dramatic growth and cities became crowded and generally unpleasant places to live. In 1857, Harper’s Weekly called New York “a huge semi-barbarous metropolis…with filthy and unlighted streets, no practical or efficient security for either life or property.”

With this as the backdrop, it’s no wonder that Olmsted’s designs, focusing on pastoral and picturesque scenery, became so popular. Olmsted was all about giving people a natural, restorative landscape. It’s not as easy as it looks, and it’s why his work is still relevant today and why his principles of design are so revered.

Landscape architecture has evolved as the needs of the world have changed. Even so, landscape architects today would do well to paint scenes in the landscape with lakes and lawns and wooded slopes. And though our cities are not the semi-barbarous metropolises of the past, our need for restoration is greater than ever. Good landscape architecture can give us a place where our spirits find rest.

Strike the match.

It’s a cold, rainy day. Perfect for the blues.

But wait.

Even if you’re not into the blues, check out this video from Mountain Stage a few years ago.  Mark O’Conner and friends with something special. It starts out with what you might expect (that is, if your expectations include playing the blues on a fiddle) but around the 5:30 mark, O’Conner really gets warmed up.  All three of these guys are really good, but O’Conner lights it on fire.

Don’t skip ahead. You need the first 5:30 to set the stage.

art + music

Luke Otley makes a habit of doing a sketch every day.  I love the discipline and I love his work.  Check out this sketch: Luke Otley

And then go here and check out Takuya Kuroda.  Reminds me of the old BS&T I used to listen to years ago.

 

 

Jazz Poetry

Every now and then I come across someone talking about the writing of Langston Hughes and I have been intrigued enough to add him to my list of authors to read. An African-American writer from the first half the 20th century, Wikipedia describes Hughes as a poet, social activist, novelist, playwright, and columnist, who occasionally found himself in the midst of controversy. The price of being a social activist, I guess.

So I was browsing through the local bookstore this afternoon and came across Selected Poems of Langston Hughes. I picked it up and turned to this poem, which I re-publish here at the risk of copyright infringement.

Bad Morning, by Langston Hughes

Here I sit
With my shoes mismated.
Lawdy-mercy!
I’s frustrated!

There’s more like that, light and unassuming. There’s writing about music, love and romance (love and romance, not necessarily the same thing), life’s annoyances and life’s tragedies, uplifting faith and disappointing lies.

But what makes it all so special is the way he tells it. Sure, there’s the outdated vernacular that might sound offensive to our enlightened(?) ears, but there’s an honesty to the writing, uncluttered with pretense, and a rhythm that is full of life, even in the midst of despair.

Still Here, by Langston Hughes

I’ve been scarred and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me, sun has baked me.
Looks like between ’em
They done tried to make me
Stop laughin’, stop lovin’, stop livin’ –
But I don’t care!
I’m still here!

At the time they called it jazz poetry.  I can dig it.

We need to talk.

a glance of the eye, the innocent look
the curl of your lips, was all that it took

That’s the first two lines of a song I wrote a few weeks ago. The narrator is beguiled by a look, a smile. It’s a wonderful thing, even if upon reflection, it seems a little superficial. Though the moment may come and go, like so many moments in a lifetime, it might be the beginning of a relationship.

we talked without words, there was so much to say

In this case, it was just the beginning. They moved beyond the magical, natural physical attraction, and they talked. They had a real relationship. Because the conversation is the relationship.

In the case of the song, it was a romantic relationship. But the conversation is also the platonic relationship. The familial relationship. The business relationship. The political relationship. The faith-based relationship.

If you want a relationship, you need to have the conversation.

Years ago I had a friend with whom I had one thing in common: our faith. We had long conversations about the fundamentals and the subtleties of our faith. Because of that, we were friends. Our situations changed, however, and he moved away and we lost contact.

Twenty years later, the contact was restored. I quickly learned that we no longer had common ground regarding faith. But there were other things. He was (and still is) an excellent writer. So we had conversations about writing. The relationship was maintained. But over the past few years, we have come to realize that our viewpoints had diverged too far to maintain meaningful conversations about anything. Neither of us said it, we just quit talking. Which is ironic, because he was the one who first articulated that fundamental truth to me. The conversation is the relationship. I still consider him a friend, but we no longer have a relationship.

That kind of thing happens all the time. Maybe Chauncey Gardner was right. Maybe it’s seasonal. Spring, summer, fall, and finally winter, when things go dormant.

And then there are all of you out there in internet land, most of whom I will never meet. At various times, we have joined in conversation about many things: music, writing, faith. Any given exchange may be only one or two sentences, but over the course of weeks, months, and years, we get to know each other because we talk. Sure, it’s in bits and pieces, but we talk. And because of that, we have relationships.

Weird how you can have friends, yet never sit across the table from each other. Never see an expression of surprise or concern or contentment. Never know what their laugh sounds like. Never hear the sound of their voice, even while you’re having a conversation.

Maybe it’s not weird at all. It’s just good.

Here’s wishing for more of the same in the years to come.


Footnote: The author Susan Scott is credited with the concept of the conversation being the relationship. In her book Fierce Conversations, she discusses the importance of the conversation in all relationships.

a love story

blame this on my sister, Sarah. she introduced twenty one pilots to me via the fairly innocuous video, Stressed Out. but I’ve been exploring and I’ve discovered that they is off the wall.

so this is my weird musical obsession of the moment. i love the theatrics and all of the facial expressions in the video, but beyond all of that, there’s a tender love story.

sure joe. sure.

grass over graves

good-grave-for-web

Some day, a preacher will stand before a few people and say nice things about me.

Depending on when this occurs, the preacher may not know me very well and have no choice but to sprinkle generic platitudes in his eulogy. Not that it really matters.

Consider this quote from M.L. Stedman’s The Light Between Oceans:

“Soon enough the days will close over their lives, the grass will grow over their graves, until their story is just an unvisited headstone.”

A bit too gloomy?

That’s not my intent.

My wife is not a regular reader of this blog. She’ll log on every now and then and see what I’ve done. She took a look several months ago and was surprised at how much I had written. “You certainly have a lot to say,” she said.

Maybe.

But why all the words? Why do I do it?

I started because everyone was saying that to be a successful writer, you need a platform, a way for readers to get to know you and your work. I guess I still hope for that, but as time goes on, I find myself expressing things that no one really cares about but me. Yeah, it feels good when something I do connects with other people, but that’s becoming less important. Maybe it’s an age thing, maturity making itself known after sixty years.

I subscribe to more than seventy blogs, though most are inactive, so it’s not as daunting as it sounds.  There are a dozen or so that I look forward to reading, and as I do, I get to know the people behind the blogs. Some are writers, some are poets, some are photographers, some are artists. I don’t always comment on their work. I don’t always Like. (Which doesn’t mean I don’t like it, but if you Like everything, you devalue the Like itself.)  Most of my blogger friends will not find fame and fortune, despite their wonderful work. But several times a day, they make my life a little better by what they do.

If I can do that every now and then for someone, that’ll be icing on the cake. Even if I don’t, there’s something about being creative and having the nerve to put it out for others to see that is fulfilling. Like maybe there’s evidence of a life lived in the pursuit of purpose and meaning. Evidence that may endure after the last visit to my headstone. That would be good.

And who knows, maybe the preacher will find something to use.


photography copyright 2016, joseph e bird

 

why – a poem for the artists

Hiker for web

Why
do you do
what you do?

.

You see the fall leaves
a season has passed
you pen the good words
and hope it will last.

A memory is shared
it once was so clear
your poetry speaks
to those who will hear.

.

You comprehend shadows
you understand light
you capture the feelings
of what’s lost in our sight.

Your pictures are poignant
of people unknown
they look faraway
they look so alone.

.

You see a petal
with colors of fire
you paint what you feel
it sings like a choir.

Your brush touches paper
like a gentle caress
the colors transform
become a child’s dress.

.

You hear the heart cry
of love gone away
you make it a song
to ease your dismay.

Or light fills your life
and burns off the haze
you sing of the beauty
your song is a praise.

.

Why
do you do
what you do?

It’s not for the fame,
or to hear accolades
such things are so fleeting
they’re just a charade.

You do it for you
and maybe to share
to give what we need
and to show that you care.


copyright 2016, joseph e bird

just another day

druggers dealin
thievers wheelin
no one feelin

it just another day

 

money grubbin
bangers drubbin
killers rubbin

can’t turn my head away

 

stars is skyin
skin be vyin
eyes aint lyin

they just a tired cliche

 

body slowin
days be goin
we be knowin

dem bones they will decay

 

songs we singin
ink we slingin
life we bringin

tomorrow on its way

 

can’t stop movin
still be provin
always groovin

it just another day


copyright 2016, joseph e bird

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