Please check out my friend Anthony. He’s a wonderful artist. He did these lovely sketches of me. I hope you will follow him.
Wow She’s Good – http://wp.me/p6YgwJ-2P
Category: art
NY Times Best Selling Author Sylvain Reynard on Poetry.
NY Times Best Selling Author and my favorite enigma Sylvain Reynard was gracious enough to write a guest blog on poetry. If you aren’t familiar with Reynard’s books,you are missing out on riveting tales full of suffering, sex, love, faith, and redemption. You can find out more about SR and his work by going to http://sylvainreynard.com/ You can also find him in all his tweeting glory @sylvainreynard
This poet is a huge fan. You will be too.
Now I give you SR in his own words
_____________________________________________
Many people avoid poetry.
Poetry usually brings to mind limericks, or schoolyard sing-songs, or angst-driven blank verse. But The Iliad and The Odyssey are poems. Dante’s The Divine Comedy is a poem.
Poetry is extremely flexible as a genre and like other arts it contributes something important to the human experience. Poetry can be a thing of beauty and a medium for reflecting on profound and sometimes unsettling truths.
When I wrote The Gabriel Series, I was inspired by the poetry of Dante, hoping to introduce the beauty of his art to a wider audience. Dante is not very well known anymore and few people read him outside of school or university.
In my new Florentine Series, I was inspired by the poet Apuleius’s account of the love affair between Cupid and Psyche. Again, this is a poem that is not very well known and infrequently read.
You can read the tale by starting here: http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/TheGoldenAssIV.htm#anchor_Toc347999726
Psyche was the youngest of three sisters and very beautiful. Her beauty was so great, it intimidated prospective suitors. Her older sisters quickly found husbands, while Psyche remained alone.
Her father feared that Psyche had been cursed by the gods and so he sought out an Oracle, who instructed him to deliver his daughter up to marry a great winged evil. In sorrow and despair, the father obeyed. Psyche went along with the Oracle’s instructions, proclaiming that her condemnation was the result of unbridled envy.
And then something surprising happened…
“…prompted by the sight of the evening star, Psyche retired to bed. Now, when night was well advanced, gentle whispers sounded in her ears, and all alone she feared for her virgin self, trembling and quivering, frightened most of what she knew nothing of. Her unknown husband had arrived and mounted the bed, and made Psyche his wife, departing swiftly before light fell. The servant-voices waiting in her chamber cared for the new bride no longer virgin. Things transpired thus for many a night, and through constant habit, as nature dictates, her new state accustomed her to its pleasures, and that sound of mysterious whispering consoled her solitude.”
Psyche was delivered up to someone, but far from treating her evilly, he treats her well. He gives her pleasure. He loves her body. But he only comes to her at night, so she has no idea who he is.
The oracle prophesied of a great winged evil, but her husband reveals himself as a tender, attentive lover, who truly cares for her. One evening, he speaks to her,
“Sweetest Psyche,” he said, “my dear wife, cruel Fortune threatens you with deadly danger, which I want you to guard against with utmost care. Your sisters think you dead and, troubled by this, they’ll soon come to the cliff-top. When they do, if you should chance to hear their lament, don’t answer or even look in their direction, or you’ll cause me the bitterest pain and bring utter ruin on yourself.”
Psyche subsequently is faced with a dilemma – should she trust her husband’s actions and how he treats her, or should she trust the judgments of her family and the Oracle.
Psyche knows what it is like to be judged on appearance alone, without regard to her character. Suitors shunned her, because she was thought to be too beautiful and too perfect – like a statue. In the poem, it looks as if she places all her trust in appearances as she strives to discover her husband’s identity, not trusting that his actions have revealed his true character.
But what would looking on his face reveal? Would it make his actions a lie? Psyche doesn’t stop to reflect on her husband’s nature. If he were truly monstrous, he’d treat her badly and not kindly. He loves her and brings her pleasure and she seems to enjoy his company, although she is plagued with doubt. Her doubt, however, reveals a fatal flaw in her character – she cannot trust her judgment of her husband based on his actions; she must judge him based on his appearances. This fatal flaw will be her undoing …
You can read the rest of the story through the link I posted above.
I deal with similar themes in “The Prince” and “The Raven,” and also the next book in the series “The Shadow.” The male and female leads find themselves in a situation where they end up having to trust one another’s characters rather than outward appearances. Indeed, the importance of having a good character is one of the themes of the novels, along with love, sex, hope, and redemption.
I welcome your comments on the myth of Cupid and Psyche and I hope that you will take time for beauty and poetry in your daily life. – SR
Wanderlust in Boots.
In London, I finally
understood to be happy,
I can’ t regret. I can’t
be the ballerina in
a box waiting for
someone to turn
the key, trapped on
a platform of fear.
The key belongs to
me. I am the music.
I chose when I dance.
I discovered this while
navigating my way around
the city.
I became wanderlust in
leather boots, pleasantly,
disoriented by the
history. The city itself
a museum. On my own
for the first time. Alone,
with the wind of my mind.
I started to realize
that this “delicate” little
flower could survive
without water, that it
could grow anywhere.
I didn’t know it then
but my own history
was falling into place
as if Aristotle had flown
in from Greece (by way of
Great Beyond Air) to
help me make sense
of life.
It’s the little things
that change us,
that help us gain
knowledge of ourselves
the self that sometimes
needs to shatter.
Getting lost in
Greenwich Park
Sitting on a bench
unseen in the fog.
The bird that refused
my bread.
(The little bastard)
I swear I heard him chirping
stop trying to be responsible
for fixing everyone
Sitting in a cafe debating
the work of Turner after
visiting the Tate.
Just missing the
train for the airport.
Stopping by the gift
shop selling postcards
of London Bridge and
plastic keychains, making
me realizes I’ve had
enough of disposables.
Waltzing into pubs
and new situations.
Dizzy from dancing.
and finally believing
I knew the steps
Finally understanding
the beauty of missteps.
-Tosha Michelle
Barbed……….and………Wired
My friend Jane just started a photography blog. Her photos are magnificent. I really hope you will check out her work and follow. She’s a wonderfully complex person. Her photos reflect that. She has an eye for beauty and all things artistic.
Thank you kindly
While I was walking by, I thought to myself……….who is being kept in and who is being kept out.
Bella
My beautiful friend Terry has just started a a WordPress blog. In addition, to being a sassy Italian chick from New York, Terry is also a talented writer, not mention, one of the most kind hearted people you’ll ever meet. Please check out her blog, and follow.
.
Nostalgic – http://wp.me/p41XYO-15
“Feels Like Home to Me” Cover – SoundCloud
My latest cover and newest artwork. I’ve included a few thoughts for the
day at the end of this post.
“Feels Like Home to Me” Cover by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud
Hands Over Eyes.
Abstract art by Yours Unruly
Hands Over Eyes
Stand behind me
Take your hands and
cover my eyes, so
I don’t see all
those doubts that
take flight in me,
so I have nothing new
to fear. No new
heartache to blindside me
Loss always coming
unannounced.
Whisper filthy things
in my ear, so it can
breathe deep your words,
drowning out the
voices in my head
screaming “be cautious”
Imploring me to not
be so reckless with
another one so
intoxicating.
Give me new skin
to touch
so I no longer feel
like a castaway
in dark harbor
full of scabs and scales
Let me feel your warmth,
as hope slips inside me.
Face to face now.
You teach me that
everything opens
with time- eyes. minds,
and even a heart damaged
by love undone.
-Tosha Michelle
Reflections Of My Life
Artwork by Tosha Michelle
“You can’t stop the future. You can’t rewind the past The only way to learn the secret …is to press play.”
“If people refuse to look at you in a new light and they can only see you for what you were, only see you for the mistakes you’ve made, if they don’t realize that you are not your mistakes, then they have to go.”
― Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free
“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large — I contain multitudes.”
― Walt Whitman
Change is an organic thing that that happens every minute, every day, and everywhere. We as people are not meant to stay static. We may grow up but we should never stop maturing and expanding our hearts and minds. We shouldn’t be held captive by the past or how people perceive us. We create and radiate our own unique way of being.
In some ways we are always changing but yet staying the same. When I look back at the me from yesteryear, I still see the same quirky, awkward, random, sentimental girl. I also see a woman who has a wealth of experience, who has endured illness, heartache and loss, but also experienced wonderful life-altering adventures. My journey has taken me out of my comfort zone and into a world of growth and enlightenment. It doesn’t hurt that I have been blessed with the love and unwavering support of family and friends. These people teach me so much every day.
I still process information the same way, but experience has altered the way I interpret that information. Every day reveals a new layer of character. The years are teaching me and molding me into a better version of myself. I embrace getting older and look forward to one day being a, “wise old soul.” Emerson said “As we grow old the beauty steals inward.” What a beautiful sentiment.
A work in process is what I will always be. I’m still evolving. I hope that never changes, even as I change. However, I know what I stand for and who I am. Uncertainty has no place in my inner world. It’s a gift where decisions become easier, temptations become less, and confidence grows stronger.
Beautiful Disaster
He hides his coldness behind a mask of charm.
His true intentions only to disarm.
Lies escape his lips
That never tell.
He plays the game so well.
He is an obsession
A handsome vision
With one glance you’ll be smitten.
He’ll wrap you up tight in his contradictions.
Fanning the flames
Of your incineration.
Poem, music and artwork by Tosha Michelle
Upon a Time…Once.
My cover of Taylor Swift’s Wildest Dreams
.
Remember at the station, waiting
On the train, on that sultry summer day?
We stood lost in an embrace, breathing in
each other that way. that awful, terrible,
perfect mad and delicious way that took us
to the shrouded place.
Remember at the station that day, waiting
on the train, as the wind hummed a lovers tune?
She sang of sublime ends, from supple beginnings.
the alluring medley of serenity in a war of rhyme
on the sharp bloody edge of Neverland and Narnia,
the peaceful enchanting interlude of rage & myth.
Remember at the station, that day, as
the train churned closer and we cussed goodbye
His steam a prelude to our eternal kiss, the sun
soaked, never ending fuel of light, of love, of
heat. Basking and bathing,
merged and emerged and submerged,
Dancing and swaying in time
with golden chariot and the huntress.
Remember at the station that day, as
the train tugged away, on a endless track?
We gazed as it came — as it came — as it went
through the crossroads. We did not know,
our own separate, distant destinations,. Our own
rail-less wild paths cut into unimagined mountainsides
You to the west, me to the east.
Remember the station that day as
the train, conducted our last kiss?
That gaping wound where our lips met. Where
we learned cruel fate is hot love and all love is
the calamity of UN-armored battle. We all go under
wrong or right. Each of us blankets miles and the ground
is nothing but a shifting litter with irascible iridescent hope
and hurt-dulled dreams, unfulfilled plans and schemes.
Remember the station that day, waiting
in twilight until we forgot and traveled on, and on
alone, with only prayers of new Twilight to set
in stony slumber with hard solace of old loves loss
then found again.
-Tosha Michelle
Everything I Never Told You 