How Do You Go From Making Lovely Unique Art To Being Lovely Unique Art?

How do you go from making lovely unique art to being lovely unique art?

Or wait - was it the other way around? Is this the secret?

Tasha Tudor from Miss Moss

Do not delete description.

Plenty herring, plenty meal Plenty peat to fill her creal Plenty bonny bairns as weel That's the toast for Marie!

All Brittany is moved: never was such a host seen as King Arthur assembled. When the ships moved out it seemed that everybody in the world was on the sea; for not even the waves were seen, so covered were they with ships. This fact is certain, that it seems from the stir that all Brittany is taking ship.

Now have the ships made the passage; and the folk who have thronged together go into quarters along the shore.

It came into Alexander's heart to go and beg the king to make him a knight; for if ever he is to win renown he will win it in this war. He takes his comrades with him, as his will urges him on to do what he has purposed.

They have gone to the king's tent: the king was sitting before his tent. When he sees the Greeks coming he has called them before him. "Sirs," quoth he, "hide not from me what need brought you here."

Alexander spoke for all and has told him his desire: "I am come," quoth he, "to pray you as I am bound to pray, my lord, for my companions and for myself, that you make us knights."

The king replies: "Right gladly; and not a moment's delay shall there be, since you have made me this request."

Then the king bids there be borne harness for twelve knights: done is what the king commands. Each asks for his own harness; and each has his own in his possession, fair arms and a good steed: each one has taken his harness. All the twelve were of like value, arms and apparel and horse; but the harness for Alexander's body was worth as much—if any one had cared to value or to sell it—as the arms of all the other twelve together.

Straightway by the sea they disrobed and washed and bathed; for they neither wished nor deigned that any other bath should be heated for them. They made the sea their bath and tub.

The queen, who does not hate Alexander—rather does she love and praise and prize him much—hears of the matter. She wills to do him a great service; it is far greater than she thinks. She searches and empties all her chests till she has drawn forth a shirt of white silk very well wrought, very delicate, and very fine. There was no thread in the seams that was not of gold, or at the least of silver.

Soredamors from time to time had set her hands to the sewing, and had in places sewn in beside the gold a hair from her head, both on the two sleeves and on the collar to see and to put to the test whether she could ever find a man who could distinguish the one from the other, however carefully he looked at it; for the hair was as shining and as golden as the gold or even more so.

The queen takes the shirt and has given it to Alexander. Ah God! how great joy would Alexander have had if he had known what the queen is sending him.

Very great joy would Soredamors too have had, who had sewn her hair there, if she had known that her love was to have and wear it. Much comfort would she have had thereof; for she would not have loved all the rest of her hair so much as that which Alexander had. But neither he nor she knew it: great pity is it that they do not know.

To the harbour where the youths are washing came the messenger of the queen; he finds the youths on the beach and has given the shirt to him, who is much delighted with it and who held it all the dearer for that it came from the queen.

But if he had known the whole case he would have loved it still more; for he would not have taken all the world in exchange, but rather he would have treated it as a relic, I think, and would have worshipped it day and night.

Has anyone else noticed how proto-cinematic is Chretien de Troyes? Is this another instance of that strange involuntary parallel between postmodern and medieval times?

What is Ranged Form Poetry?

RANGED FORM POEM:

A "musical poem" which allows each line to be written within a range of metrical feet or rhythmic beats (instead of dictating a meter or rhythm); and which places end-rhymes within certain range of one another (instead of dictating a rhyming pattern.) Ranged Form emphasizes inspiration and musicality, while preserving elements of formal poetry.

Ranged Form Poems can be quite subtle and sophisticated, without going off the deep end of false sophistication that turns poetry into enjambed prose.

MUSICAL POEM:

A poem which, unlike Free Verse, uses musical speech elements like rhyme, rhythm, meter, or alliteration.

HOW RANGED POETRY DIFFERS FROM FORMAL POETRY:

It still has form, but the form is fluid and shaped in the moment of inspiration. Ranged poetry focuses on musical effects rather than on strict patterns. It is inspired in part by the work of Christian Southern poet Sydney Lanier.

IS RANGED POETRY STILL TRADITIONAL?

In his brilliant theological book, Living Tradition, Orthodox Christian theologian John Meyendorff explains that only dead traditions do not change. In a living tradition, each generation has the authority to further develop the tradition, provided it remains faithful to what has come before.

By this measure, Ranged Poetry is definitely within the English poetic tradition, in that it is a development from formal poetry that has come before, and a rejection of revolutionary word-things.

Fleur-de-Lys

Wither, Lily slim and white;   softly cede each velvet part.

Sing, Wind, that she was straight and tall.

With rainfall swell and fill,  stem-circling green Pool.

Roll in around her, Night,  aghast and whispering and cool.

Within her faultless heart  creep, armored Animals and small.

And last, O Pool! -  on your breast whose strength is slight,     awhile bear still        the spear she must let fall.

PRAYER OF SOUL-WOUNDED BLOGGERS

Many thanks, O God, for thy Holy Ones

From vanity, vanity, and degraded vanity, we turn to wholeness, we turn to stainlessness with vast and gusty sighs of relief

Ah, forgive us, Sweetest, that we have not relieved by sweetness souls miserably devouring their own dank and sour miseries in our helpless sight

But we thank thee and yet again we thank thee that we may turn we thank thee from the grievous vision may turn to gaze

on thy backward-revolving sunrise: Dawn returning from the west mercifully refusing night to unhappy night-cravers

Ah, thanks and thanks yet again, our God, God our own, many thanks still yet again for thy Holy Ones, O God.