Poetic Sketch
by Marie Bortolotto
letting go isn't easy
the way of surrender
isn't for the fainthearted --
nothing to hold onto
but the rhythms of my breath
August 31, 2024
August 19, 2024
Poetic Sketch
by Marie Bortolotto
Walking
Listening --
The bells! The bells!
I'm reminded of John Donne's poem:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were,
As well as if a manor of thine own,
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
 |
| Marie Bortolotto Artist |
August 14, 2024
August 13, 2024
August 12, 2024
Poetic Sketch
© Marie Bortolotto 2024
tumbleweed of thoughts
appearing and disappearing
I wonder which way
the wind is blowing?
Visit "Poetic Utterances Website
August 11, 2024
Haiku
© Marie Bortolotto 2024
old muslim
on the bus -
call to prayer
Note: This haiku was inspired by an old muslim listening to the adhan (call to prayer) on his phone while boarding the bus. The bus immediately fell silent; the muezzin's resonant voice calling all of us to prayer (praise/gratitude/devotion) regardless of our beliefs or spiritual affinities.
August 10, 2024
Elegy to the Old Man Hokuju
Poem by Yosa Buson (Japanese poet & painter of Edo period 1716 - 1784)
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
Thinking of you, I go up on the hill and wander.
Around the hill, why is it such a sadness?
Dandelions yellow and shepherds-purse blooming white --
not anyone to look at them.
I hear a pheasant, calling and calling fervently.
Once a friend was there across the river, living.
Ghostly smoke rises and fades away with a west wind
strong in fields of small bamboo grasses and reedy fields.
Nowhere to leave for.
Once a friend was there across the river, living, but today
not even a bird sings a song.
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
In my grass hut by the Amida image I light no candle,
offer no flowers, and only sit here alone.
This evening, how invaluable it is.
Priest Buson with a thousand bowings
August 9, 2024
Waking-up At Dawn
© Marie Bortolotto 2024
Twenty five years ago
I moved to the mountains
Inspired by wandering poets
I followed in their footsteps
Singing words from the heart
City traffic rattles my nerves
Wildfires cut down my breath
Lost in a maze of emptiness
I walk countless pathways
Carrying water, chopping wood
Years dissolve into dust
I’m an old woman now
Shrouded in shades of grey
How many really see me
Beyond the gaze of time
Waking-up at dawn
I compose poetry in the park
Content with the way of things
Listening to the voice of silence
Nothing and everything speaks
Note: Poetry as an oral art form likely predates written text.
The earliest poetry is believed to have been recited or sung.
 |
| Marie Bortolotto Artist |
August 8, 2024
August 7, 2024
Ambulātus*
© Marie Bortolotto 2024
I left everything behind
to walk ten thousand miles -
a circumambulation of the heart
with each step devoted
to the mother of all mercies
what I'm learning is this -
delusions fade into freedom
when your feet kiss the ground
*ambulātus (from Latin) to walk
 |
| Marie Bortolotto Artist |
August 6, 2024
August 4, 2024
Finding the Way
© Marie Bortolotto 2024
sometimes, I fall
out of rhythm with life
darkness gathers
in my heart
birds stop singing
streams dry up
and roses cease to bloom
that's when I open the door
take a walk, empty-handed
nothing but the clothes on my back
I wander ancient pathways
in and out of time
shedding all delusions
until I find the way again
 |
| © Marie Bortolotto Art |
August 1, 2024
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)