(How like my Corona, the click and the clack)

How like my Corona, the click and the clack
of my chordant heart breaking, in soot and in black,
of my burning mind's ashes, a smithy's dark floor,
and my self that's reforged as I kneel at the door,

as I hope it will open, though never it could,
for its hinges are melted, though carved out of wood,
for the fire that scorched it, impossibly hot,
will melt even trees; in this flame I am caught.

This text © 2002 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

Hanneke and the Yamulkes

I just saw Hanneke Cassel (and some of her very talented friends) at Club Passim. It was awesome. She's playing tomorrow night in Westford, and I can't go, but if you can, you should.

I spent most of the time that I was listening also doing some writing, which is just what I used to do when I listened to her play on Tuesdays at McGann's in college. Nothing that I wrote is worthy of posting, though, so in a separate post I'm going to put up another of my poems. I was hoping to find something I'd actually written at McGann's, but all of those are either already up ("(Lucid bent the cover tree)" is one), or not readily available. The one I will put up is from the same few years, at least.

The Fall of a Purist

I think Maggie may have converted me.

Maggie is a friend of mine from Wildwood, which is code for "the most awesome summer of my life, in which I was crammed 10+ people to an apartment with 60 of the greatest people ever." She has a blog (linked above) in which she often posts photos she's taken. Now, I consider myself a pretty good photographer -- I've had my share of accolades since I began shooting two years ago -- but Maggie consistently stuns me with her work. All five of you who read my blog should definitely check hers out. You won't be disappointed.

The thing is, I've always considered myself somewhat hard-core when it came to photography. I collected antique cameras for like 15 years before I actually picked up anything but a point-and-shoot, and I rarely used those when I had them. When I actually got into photography, I went straight for a Digital Rebel and got to work taking shots on full manual. I'm a UNIX hacker, and I take the same approach to my photos: I shoot raw, adjust the exposure if I have to, and that's it. I was going to get a larger CF card so I could do bracketing without losing space. (I suppose that's a kind of digital processing, too, but at least it's in-camera). Though I never look down on anyone who did a lot of processing, I have taken a certain pride in my purist attitude. Ansel Adams didn't have a computer to do post-processing, I would sometimes think, my nose held slightly aloft.

That was until this morning.

Thing is, without at least minimal post-processing, I can't take pictures like these (particularly the ones at the end). They're just pictures Maggie took out on a fall afternoon, but the tone that the added contrast provided is something I realized I just can't ever duplicate in my own work, but I want to. While I can't imagine being one of those photographers who always modifies his photos, I've seen some awesome stuff with minimal processing done in the last few years -- most of which simply couldn't have been achieved with a camera alone -- and Maggie's pictures were the straw that broke the camel's back. My nose is now pointed straight ahead, and when I get my photos collected into one place, there will probably be a "post-processed" section.

Yeah, I probably won't put them in the same category. Might be too much of a leap for me still.

Burst Culture and 365 Tomorrows

This post on Burst Culture is really an amazing commentary on web-based publishing and where it is today. Lots of stuff this casual blogger didn't really know about, and it's pretty amazing.

Another link: 365 Tomorrows, a blog of daily, very short sci-fi. Definitely a regular of mine, starting today.

Second link courtesy of the first, courtesy of Wil Wheaton dot Net: In Exile.

I highly encourage the click.

Copped from B's blog, this is a movement to send a clear message to the RIAA and its ilk about new content delivery methods and their potential. They treat us -- their customers! -- and even their artists as enemies, all for the sake of profit, when they could benefit from the content delivery methods we would prefer, and profit their asses off. This is one way to make those possible benefits concrete in the minds of some execs. It isn't going to fix everything, but every step we can make is good.

Go Go Gadget Beatbox

You must check this out.

50 points if anybody can tell me the name of the song he breaks into in the middle. 100 points and a batch of chocolate chip cookies (seriously) to anybody who can tell me the format that made the song popular in the early days of personal computing, and the name of the program I would've used to play it on with my Mac SE.

(Lucid bent the cover tree,)

This is one of my few sketch poems. A sketch is a literary form wherein the author sets out simply to describe a scene, generally in prose. I think of this form as a cross between poetry and photography, the other art form I'm most heavily involved in. If I ever find the cover tree, I will certainly take a picture and post it here.

Lucid bent the cover tree,
only scattered fragments falling from
sun to field's floor,
quiet, ringing warm against
blanket comforted roots and grass,
and curled figures, soft in sleep below.
This text © 2004 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

The Swordsman

The Swordsman is my most popular poem, I think, at least judging from the responses I've gotten at readings and online. People have told me that they find it accessible because it tells a story in simple terms. What do you think of the story? Of the poem?

One hint: the thing that I describe in this poem happened to me. Do you know what it is? Has it happened to you?

The Swordsman
-
The cold katana cut my flesh today.
He gripped my pound of meat without a sound;
he ripped my chest and dropped it on the ground
in murmured worship, not a yard away.

I lingered, wavered with the evening breeze,
which once so fresh, now stole a copper tone.
My murderer was one whom I had known:
the swordsman bent to death upon his knees.

I mourned my heart a minute, and was done --
my enemy had taken what was his,
and I had let him take it, truth be told,
for I would not be his next bastard son,
and I need not that heart in me to live --
then my katana swung, and left him cold.
This text © 2004 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

Chesterton on Truth

I think this is worthy of pondering (courtesy of Andrew Sullivan):

"You can only find truth with logic if you have already found truth without it."
- G. K. Chesterton

Do you agree, or disagree? Why?

(Fall lit her eyes as she drove.)

10 points to anyone who knows (without being told) who this poem is about. (And welcome to anybody joining us through my Facebook news section.)

Fall lit her eyes as she drove.
Smiling, she dared me through the drifting leaves
to catch her
-- the ancience of autumn all around us --
she dared me, as the leaves fell.
This text © 2004 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

(Send for me and take me,)

I wrote this poem while I was still in college, possibly as early as freshman year (1998-99) in my junior year, like the copyright notice says. It's one of a very few of my poems that are really prayers, and since I found myself praying it tonight, it seemed like an apropos post.

Send for me and take me,
take my soul, it's crouching low
but it is calling you to take it,
and to bend it like a bow that will not break
unless you let it, 'less you make it --
make it so:
send for me and take me,
though I'm hiding, crouching low.
This text © 2002 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.