Troubadours of Truth

A small group of my colleagues and I would meet occasionally to let off a little steam. We called it the Meeting of the Minds, but I also like the term used here: Troubadours of Truth. We haven't met in a while now, but I think of these meetings with fondness. Enjoy!

Cheering with Irish Coffees at a local pub

Troubadours of Truth

We meet in various locales

far enough away from the others

who meet for what they think

are much more crucial causes.

At our 'meetings of the minds'

we pun and chortle, sip our drinks

and cheerfully lighten

our burdens of misanthropy

with stories that feed our souls.

Our meetings begin and end

with hugs and reassurance

that common sense is a reality,

if surveyed through the pane

of the Troubadours of Truth.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Harvest Moon

Harvest Moon

After the heat of summer,

the sweltering, suffocating heat, 

a welcoming breeze wafts over her skin

as she inhales the cool, crisp breath of autumn. 

  And there is the moon, 

  the Harvest moon, 

the Super moon

 in all its glory. 

Her eyes behold 

the luminescence

reflected from the sun

as she wistfully wonders,

"Is anyone else gazing at this brilliant sight 

with hopeful eyes and heartfelt smile?" 

Soothing wishes warm the night 

a comforting, timeless Salve. 

  

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

Heart and Consciousness

http://c2.api.ning.com/files/euULXEQgkJUGj1mAEzxJvFNLBjVEllILVGKtFKYHLMwbAtayRWlrIfNQpBtcLNH-D4aSS5qfcj-s-jNiaaK3NVc6GMSnitGu/AlexGrey_HeartConsciousness.jpg

In her book, Patriotic Sketches of Ireland, Sydney Owenson observes:

Political philosophy is an extension of the mind’s eye to the whole great scale of civil society, and demonstrating the close-linked dependencies of its remotest parts, affords to the benevolence of the human heart, and the comprehension of the human understanding, a social system, gratifying to the feelings of the one, and ennobling to the faculties of the other. (33)

The human heart and 'comprehension of understanding,' which I will identify as consciousness, are two distinct entities, for the heart, aside from its organic characteristics, contains the essence of human emotions. In contrast, comprehension of understanding involves the assimilation of intelligence and critical analysis as they interact with the psycho-physiological structure in a wondrous flow of human experience. 

Concord

One heart ~

beating strong

beating true

One song ~

sung with melodies

sublime

One life ~

circuitous, refined

collates

Two essences ~

ennobled

by the One.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Goal: Inspiration

Goal: Inspiration

With each cleansing breath 

she inhales 

the aroma of the glow, 

releases 

toxic confusion,

breathes 

purity of heart and mind,

feels

the respiration 

moving through her body.

Through her brain,

each thought

dances

to effervescent stirrings 

as her dream

evolves

from ache to inspiration.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

Alley Adventure

A memory of one of the many adventures my brother and I shared as children has come to mind. Stephen always discovered fascinating places, and I was the only sister who had the guts (or insanity) to go with him. This one was at our grandparents' house in an old section of Detroit, Michigan where each neighborhood had an alley.  Enjoy!

My grandparents' old house in Detroit, remodeled. 
You can see the tree in the background. Beyond that tree is the alley.

Alley Adventure

The Alley behind our grandparents' house

was intriguing to my brother and me.

The grown-ups didn’t want us to go there,

but he knew how to unlatch the back gate,

Sshhh…very quietly, so it wouldn’t squeak.

We tiptoed onto the graveled road.

A sweet yet acrid smell filled the air;

it was a strange, forbidden world.

This day, we discovered a horseshoe print,

embedded in a piece of hidden pavement,

shadowed by the tall grasses growing wild,

fighting for a piece of the dappled sunrays

that played upon the broken cement.

“Only one print,” Stephen whispered,

“Must be from Pegasus.”

Voices formed words in an unknown tongue

and floated from a large window of an old house

behind an unpainted wooden fence,

“Sssshhh!  Ghosts!” he  whispered.

I bent down to pick up a weapon,

a broken shard of brown glass

“This is a piece of magic glass, Jeanne,

from a land faraway… Put it down!

We don’t know what evil powers it might have.”

Reluctantly, I tossed the shard.

No magic today… no spilling of blood.

A quick run to the old wooden gate,

and we were back on Grandma’s garden path,

with freshly cut grass, wildflowers and roses,

our absence unnoticed, our memories enriched.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos  

The Mill

Long ago, a friend told me about this beautiful mill, located in Floyd County, Virginia. I found a picture of it in a history book and saw the serene beauty of this sight, so I took out my oil paints and painted my own version of the mill: Mabry Mill is its name. Below are two photos. One is a photo from Google Images. The other is my painting of the lovely Mabry Mill in Floyd County, Virginia. The poem revolves around this stalwart mill.

The 'melodious Lark' in the poem refers to Ralph Vaughn Williams' masterpiece, The Lark Ascending. You can hear it if you click HERE. 

Photo of Mabry Mill, Virginia

 from Google Images

 

My painting of Mabry Mill, Virginia

                                             

The Mill

Quietly and peaceful

 The Mill does stand

In harmony with God's land,

and in its tranquil solitude

the melodious Lark 

sings its sweet etude. 

All the while, 

the Mill in steady repose sings: 

"I'll be here

as long as the wind does carry

His song through the realms of time. 

I'll be here for you ~ 

My love will ne'er weary

for your spirit 

inspires

my Joy. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

Ekphrasis: My poem, "Haven" and the Church of St. Stephen the Martyr

Below is a photo of the Church of St. Stephen the Martyr in Opotiki, New Zealand. This picture brought to mind the introduction to a collection of short stories that I will complete... one day. The poem accompanying this photo is a conversion of a portion of my prose introduction to poetic form.

Church of St Stephen the Martyr, Opotiki, ca 1910-1930

"I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God."

~ St. Stephen’s words at his theophany

Haven

They beckon 

the weary-hearted and calloused,

“Come and sit with me.”

Rows of empty pews

moor at a small altar,

each one anchored with a kneeler. 

Her candle lit,
she takes her usual seat

in the second row,

hoists the kneeler, 

then quietly moves it

to the wood floor,

genuflects in the Holy Presence, 

and blesses herself.

With eyes lowered,

she steers her troubled vessel

on an ethereal air,

through prayerful sighs

to the Haven of hope,

His almighty promise.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

We will always remember!

Photo from Google Images

Click onto the candle to hear Sarah McLachlan sing "Angel."

Photo from http://michaeljamescasey.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/natl_memorial.jpg

Photo from Washington Post

Photo from Google Images

 The National 9/11 Memorial, New York City, Pentagon 9/11 Memorial, and Flight 93 Memorial

I wrote this poem the afternoon of September 11, 2001 in Danbury, CT, 65 miles north of the devastating scene unfolding in New York City, yet close enough to know that the same clouds passing right above me just passed over that horror. The wispy clouds almost looked like angels floating above and away from the madness below. No planes crossed the sky above, only silence… except for the industry of nature.

September 11, 2001

Bellowing clouds of madness

devour cavernous streets

filled with masses 

seeking freedom

from a spumous potion of death.

Silent plumes in an azure sky,

Blessed by the whispers
of three thousand Angels,
newly formed and dancing,
mollify this tableau of horror.

As evening approaches, 

silent stars fill the night firmament. 

No airplanes fly in this night sky.

Delicate crickets chirp; katydids begin to sing.

Strong airy wings of a soaring bird reveal 

a Love that can never die...

Freedom prevails.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos  2001

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

Sydney Owenson: Weaving Threads of Culture Together

From my book: 

In Sydney Owenson’s national tales, she weaves together threads of disenfranchisement and enchantment, capturing the essence of the politically inspired Romantic era, in which the grand is intentionally written to be grander, where literary characterizations entwine with political forces within a civil society. 

The English aristocracy and the publishing community accept Owenson as a significant member of their elite societies through her writing and marriage to Sir Charles Morgan. Even though she takes the name, ‘Lady Morgan,’ she remains loyal to her Irish roots as Sydney Owenson. Her loyalty to both identities serves her expressive purposes well, for she carefully coordinates these unique influences into her text by merging the English tale of aristocratic inheritance with Irish ideology. 

Not only did Sydney Owenson bring innovation to Irish literature in the form of national tales written from a woman’s perspective, but also she included illuminating research in each of her works on the historical significance of her characters, their personal and political milieux, and their sociolinguistic backgrounds. She includes a wide range of socioeconomic and ethnic variables within the linguistic components of her characters’ discourse. 

For these reasons, she has been an excellent choice in researching the relevance of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries’ revolutionary period in Europe and America. Her interest in uniting political factions and social classes as a way to open communication for the cause of justice in Ireland during this era is clearly evident in her thematic structures and characterizations. 

Phonology

I took this photo of Sydney Owenson's plaque on Kildare Street in Dublin a few years ago.

On the topic of phonology or phonetics, the study of the way humans combine sounds to create linguistic patterns, I give you a brief excerpt from my book: Innovations in Rhetoric in the Writing of Sydney Swenson (Lady Morgan, 1781-1859) and below that, a poem I wrote entitled, Cognizance. Enjoy! 

Steven Pinker discusses the impact of phonology and semantics as individuals experience sensory connections in their formation of new concepts:    

The phonemes and syllables in a word contact their counterparts in memory piecemeal, more and more of them finding a match as the milliseconds tick by. As soon as all the pieces match some entry, the irregular form linked to the entry is fetched and shunted to the vocal tract. While the lookup is in progress, the inhibitory signal sent to the rule box gets stronger and stronger, and when all goes well, the rule is braked to a halt. [1]

At this point, the individual synapses in the brain connect the familiar sound with a specific memory. 

---

[1] Steven Pinker, Words and Rules: The Ingredients of Language, (New York: Harper, 2011), p. 130.

*****************************************************************

Cognizance (Alliterative Antics)

Jung's is collective

containing collaborative

but chaotic compositions

carefully calculated

to create clear cut

caricatures of cranial

cacophonies in crazy

and occasionally corny

creatures who care

about causes and effects.

But mine is coincidental, 

caught between 

casual and coiffure

occasionally quaint,

consistent and tranquil

cautious,  concerned

a creatively concocted 

course of action, 

convoking acquaintances

to collaborate and affect.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

The Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Click below for more information from the Catholic News Agency: 

 The Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary: 

Saint of the day: Sept. 8: The Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary

The Nativity of the Virgin, c. 1400-1405, 

painting by Andrea di Bartolo, 

housed at the National Gallery of Art

The Shy One

The poem below deals with a childhood hurdle that eventually led me to grow in confidence: the family tag of 'the shy one.' 

a photo of pensive me, 2009

The Shy One

“Jeanne is the shy one,”

explained Mom 

when she introduced 

my siblings and me

to someone new

we happened to meet.

My tag was sewn,

identified and neat.

But I really wasn’t terribly shy

as indicated by Mother.

I simply loved to scrutinize

and exercise prudence

in dealing with others.

A curse back then.

But now I understand;

my pensive ‘flaws’

were precious gifts

of a Higher command.

Indeed, this shy one

has ardently grown,

for my interactions

delicately honed,

pensive and discreet,

have led me to complete

some pretty marvelous feats.

Thank you, Lord. 

Thanks, Mom and Dad. RIP

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Upon listening to "Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis" by Ralph Vaughn-Williams

 

I took this photo of the moon in a cloudy sky, framed by the shadows of maple trees. 

The clouds seemed to form a landscape of their own. 

Click HERE to listen to the lovely, musical piece, "Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis," performed in the Gloucester Cathedral, where Ralph Vaughn-Williams first performed it in 1910. 

I wrote the verse below upon listening to the above piece,

 composed by Ralph Vaughan-Williams.

Fantasia

Yearning for serenity,

an unsettled mind

drifts gracefully, 

flowing in paralysis,

a paradox offering

of a spiritual triad:

sweet malady

sweeter melody

sweetest memory.

A core surge 

caresses

in Divine rhythm.

Echoes...

from arched bones,

guarding this heart

in solemn surrender 

to stillness,

fill the repose  

with sweet assurance.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

Falling Leaves, Prayers Answered

Autumnal View from my Back Door

 Falling Leaves, Prayers Answered

A cycle of renewal

causes leaves to fall,

replenish the soil,

and build a life force

that completes their purpose.

Each tumbling leaf 

makes me think of 

prayers answered, 

Blessed from above. 

As I walk 

through the fallen leaves,

I feel joy 

as a breeze blows one leaf

right into my face.

Then, my smile coalesces

with gentle thoughts

of Gratitude 

for the answered prayer.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

From my Operetta, Luminescence: Rhododendron (Dark Thoughts of Anne Sexton)

There exists a balance of positive and negative in life, and in my operetta, Luminescence, I address this through the spirit voice of Anne Sexton and her associated flower, Rhododendron.

               

                                          Photo from the site: Summerhillgardencentre.co.uk

Rhododendron: Dark Thoughts

(from my operetta, Luminescence)

From the corner of the garden,

a fierce wind buffets 

branches of the Rhododendron.

Now enters the looming danger 

of love’s despair.

Begonia, Narcissus,

and Southernwood

all bode a feeling of lost love

in the midst of this glorious

locus amoenus.

Anne whispers: 

Rhododendron is my flower’s name,

I bring dark thoughts

into this world of fragrance.

I make the lives of my seed

and the surrounding seeds

suffer as I do.

Humanity has attached meaning 

to our nature, proclaiming

that we ignore

the pleas of the world

within our hearts, 

so we suffer the association

with human frailties:

vanity, melancholy, heartbreak. 

But here in this garden, I now see: 

The beauty in our lives

does indeed surround us,

even in our darkest moments,

even in those isolated

hours of despair.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

A Pen, So Simple

 

A Pen, So Simple 

A pen, so simple

and fundamental

yet functional

and dependable

somewhat ornamental.

 

A pen, so simple…

of brawny rosewood,

so my fingers could

glide as they write 

to open minds.

 

A pen, so simple,

expresser of mine.

Now, where did I place you?

Oh, Saints Divine,

I implore you,

please help me to find

my much-needed pen

for

without it, 

I feel…………

                                 inert!

 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos