Over by the wildwood, in the hot summer night,
We lay in the tall grass, til the mornin' light come shining
If I had my way I'd never get the urge to roam.
But sometimes I serve my country, sometimes I stay at home.
Just don't put me in the frame upon the mantel
Where memories grow dusty old and grey.
Don't leave me alone in the twilight.
Twilight is the loneliest time of day.
And I never gave it a second thought, it never crossed my mind
What's right and what's not. I'm not the judgin' kind.
But I would steal your darkness and the storms from your skies.
We’ve all got certain trials burnin' up inside.
Don't send me no distant salutations.
Or silly souvenirs from far away.
Don't leave me alone in the twilight.
Twilight is the loneliest time a day.
And don't put me in the frame upon the mantel.
Where memories turn dusty old and grey.
Don't leave me alone in the twilight.
Twilight is the loneliest time a day.
Written by Robbie Robertson
Posted for Twilight, a suggestion at One Single Impression.
The words reproduced here are Shawn Colvin's from her cover version of this song by The Band on her Cover Girl album from 1994. She deviates from the original lyrics in many instances.
Here's an impassioned rendering of the song by Eddie629 (recorded in the mud-room with steam rising in the cold weather) from Youtube:
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The dark box fib
Part
of
me is
like a dark
box: that’s where I put
most of you to keep the lid on.
– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2009)
As usual, an accurate rendering of (momentary albeit recurrent) first-hand feelings.
of
me is
like a dark
box: that’s where I put
most of you to keep the lid on.
– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2009)
As usual, an accurate rendering of (momentary albeit recurrent) first-hand feelings.
Monday, February 23, 2009
In and out of tune with Parveen Sultana
I
sing
along
with her and
am happy to be
in tune sometimes and notice it.
sing
along
with her and
am happy to be
in tune sometimes and notice it.
– Leonard Blumfeld
Note
Parveen Sultana, born in Assam in 1950, is one of the great current singers of India. Her voice spans umpteen octaves, making it difficult for normal untrained mortals like yours truly to even attempt to sing along.
Here's a not so serious sample – Parveen Sultana's contribution to the movie Kudrat from 1981:
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Unwritten love letter
My love,
I’m trying to imagine what would happen if tomorrow I boarded the train that takes you to work, sat down on the hopefully empty seat next to yours, placed – among all the people that might be watching your uneasy surprise and my jolly trespassing – the letter in your hands – the letter written to me in your words and with your name signed, the letter that tells it through you as I see it: your denial to acknowledge any feeling for me, the explanation of those glances, the happiness you felt in those moments spent together when we were in perfect tune, the glow on your face and in your eyes, the gleeful exchange of easy banter, the absorption that made us forget the world around. Would you wash your hands of all this, laugh it off as all in my imagination and send me off, once again, coolly, with some pedestrian greeting? Or would you admit that you’ve been lying all along – for whatever rational logic?
But perhaps it’s better to leave everything as it is – suppressed, puzzling, frustrating, ignored, lopsided.
I could be wrong.
L.
The task from Café Writing was to pick at least three of the following words and build a piece of writing around them.
I chose all the words: greeting, hands, imagine, leave, letter, people, train, trespassing, washing.
I’m trying to imagine what would happen if tomorrow I boarded the train that takes you to work, sat down on the hopefully empty seat next to yours, placed – among all the people that might be watching your uneasy surprise and my jolly trespassing – the letter in your hands – the letter written to me in your words and with your name signed, the letter that tells it through you as I see it: your denial to acknowledge any feeling for me, the explanation of those glances, the happiness you felt in those moments spent together when we were in perfect tune, the glow on your face and in your eyes, the gleeful exchange of easy banter, the absorption that made us forget the world around. Would you wash your hands of all this, laugh it off as all in my imagination and send me off, once again, coolly, with some pedestrian greeting? Or would you admit that you’ve been lying all along – for whatever rational logic?
But perhaps it’s better to leave everything as it is – suppressed, puzzling, frustrating, ignored, lopsided.
I could be wrong.
L.
The task from Café Writing was to pick at least three of the following words and build a piece of writing around them.
I chose all the words: greeting, hands, imagine, leave, letter, people, train, trespassing, washing.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Two lacy variations
Variation 1
Variation 2Two variations resulting from different combinations of two pictures - one of a strip of lace, the other of a lacy flower. Posted for Inspire Me Thursday's Lace.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Disarrayed rabble
This disarrayed*
rabble** has nearly
invalidated every
human array I ever
believed in.
* So in disarray with the actual needs of mankind and this planet.
** A reference to those who would probably rather think themselves to be the very crown of the crown of creation, or at least of financial cleverness.
– Leonard Blumfeld
Written using disarray, rabble and validate from 3WW CXXIV.
rabble** has nearly
invalidated every
human array I ever
believed in.
* So in disarray with the actual needs of mankind and this planet.
** A reference to those who would probably rather think themselves to be the very crown of the crown of creation, or at least of financial cleverness.
– Leonard Blumfeld
Written using disarray, rabble and validate from 3WW CXXIV.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Ancient fib
What
am
I go-
ing to do
about my stubby
admirer? He keeps coming back.
– Anonymous, dates from ca. 800 A.D.
Translated from Sanskrit by L. Blumfeld. Goes to show that the ancient Indians, who were incidentally the ones that invented the so-called Arabic numerals, had already mastered the form of fibonacci poetry.
am
I go-
ing to do
about my stubby
admirer? He keeps coming back.
– Anonymous, dates from ca. 800 A.D.
Translated from Sanskrit by L. Blumfeld. Goes to show that the ancient Indians, who were incidentally the ones that invented the so-called Arabic numerals, had already mastered the form of fibonacci poetry.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
The ballad of Art the Fart
When he was little
and in his pants did piddle,
Arthur the Fart,
as he was known,
could not quite tell
a dog from a bone.
In later years,
however,
he became
increasingly clever.
In rooms intended
for perambulation
he’d place what’s called
an installation:
cut-up and dried scats,
degenerated rats,
his grandpas’s shaver
and things even graver,
his and his lover’s
used underwear,
assorted bunches
of pubic and other hair,
plastic bottles emptied
of their content,
in short:
everything that lent
itself to presentation
became an installation.
Art-hungry hordes arrived,
illuminate critics applauded –
Art’s installations
were highly lauded.
Except one nasty soul
from way back when,
who used to play with the
installator in the pen
and then became
an unknown artist,
but counted himself
among the smartest,
to end the farce
swore that he would
make it go up in smoke,
and sure he could.
Henceforth, Art’s
every installation
turned into a pyre
for illustration.
Unperturbed in
his career,
Art said
that all was here
and now,
accepting fire
with a
bow:
Whoever
has a heart for art,
please bear with me –
Art the Fart.
– Leonard Blumfeld
Posted for Sunday Scribblings' Art.
and in his pants did piddle,
Arthur the Fart,
as he was known,
could not quite tell
a dog from a bone.
In later years,
however,
he became
increasingly clever.
In rooms intended
for perambulation
he’d place what’s called
an installation:
cut-up and dried scats,
degenerated rats,
his grandpas’s shaver
and things even graver,
his and his lover’s
used underwear,
assorted bunches
of pubic and other hair,
plastic bottles emptied
of their content,
in short:
everything that lent
itself to presentation
became an installation.
Art-hungry hordes arrived,
illuminate critics applauded –
Art’s installations
were highly lauded.
Except one nasty soul
from way back when,
who used to play with the
installator in the pen
and then became
an unknown artist,
but counted himself
among the smartest,
to end the farce
swore that he would
make it go up in smoke,
and sure he could.
Henceforth, Art’s
every installation
turned into a pyre
for illustration.
Unperturbed in
his career,
Art said
that all was here
and now,
accepting fire
with a
bow:
Whoever
has a heart for art,
please bear with me –
Art the Fart.
– Leonard Blumfeld
Posted for Sunday Scribblings' Art.
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