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I stepped inside the bedroom with my glossy blue paper box designed with silhouettes of some elegant people and around them an ornate golden border. Inside the box, I store the only two surviving handwritten journals of mine, one from a few years gone that was very hard to read but is fine to be there and another where I may write a bunch of spontaneous sentences for fun and at times also begin new poems by hand. The Full Moon Party for the Flower Moon (in Sagittarius) began as I flicked on the lamplights and stretched comfortably on my zabuton cushion with the little zafu cushion on my lap; at times I would hold the zafu close to my chest, or rest it under me as I lied on my belly. I had the many handwritten poems I'd recently translated on blank paper held horizontally with little spontaneous ink drawings I'd created as I'd found myself feeling the different moods of the poems. And I had a clear glass of water with me to drink. I leaned against the blue paper box to write
You might find an understanding, a silent one, that after awhile you find to not really be silent and that took the time to find the words to find you. *** Kin To Sorrow by Edna St. Vincent Millay Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door— Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow’s hand? Marigolds around the step And rosemary stand, And then comes Sorrow— And what does Sorrow care For the rosemary Or the marigolds there? Am I kin to Sorrow? Are we kin? That so oft upon my door— Oh, come in! *** Poem by May Ziadeh (translated & handwritten by me) O my soul sleepy of images; Sweet melancholy, Come back high over me! *** Poem by Kahlil Gibran I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart for the joys of the multitude, and I would not have the tears that sadness makes to flow from my every part turn into laughter. I would that my life remain a tear and a smile. *** Edna St. Vincent Millay b. Feb. 22,
Painting Ideas I have three different ideas for paintings with imagined imagery and two have possible titles, and I won’t tell you about any of them in this post. The last time I set up, I was impressed with the clear wrapper I took off the canvas. The session was over even without me painting anything, but it was complete because I learned something valuable then about light and color taught to me by that wrapper that I looked at and held up awhile. New Snacks I found these natural baked crisps made with cranberry and pumpkin seeds. I ate two before I snapped this photo because they are so good and for a moment eating them seemed the natural next movement than photographing them, but I remembered in time for this photo. Plants Before I walked into the supermarket last night, I noticed they were selling new plants and one looked like baby marijuana. I looked at it, and I asked • if it was. • said ‘No, they can’t sell marijuana at the grocery store!’ but appeared amused.* The Sky
the sky at sunset last night During moments of waiting in the day, I had learned more about translating poetry by rereading my own first attempts with online translators and by coming across a different poem yesterday that had been beautifully translated by someone else. This is my own newest translation of yesterday’s poem by May Ziadeh that I finished just before bed, and I read it now with breakfast. Capricious Grandiose in the deep sky, the sun said its customary goodbye to the river, the palm trees, the sands of this place, and walked toward the other world. Then the horizon sent up a sigh and the heavens were tinged with lilac and rose, quivering colors where lies azure and the breath of the zephyr soften. Cairo was hidden beneath a fine mist, the trees swirling on the brown banks of the Nile. The shadow fell everywhere, finding no danger and covered over safely the plain and the foam. * I will return tonight to read it aloud. At the bottom of this post is my fir
When I had found this book and looked within, I fell into a shallow sea and settled into the water, resting comfortably upon wet sand, as if not yet to come back out. I had not yet read the poems or any books by this author, and I am translating them from French into English, with an online translator and my own sense of the voice of the poems, and then writing many of them by hand. It’s nice to know that the author was a translator, although I would’ve done this anyway to be able to read and share them, and I note her translation work was much more skilled. These are poems I happily sink within and also as if the poet was someone I'd known dearly with the closeness of understanding and appreciation. My own great springtime flood of poetry has slowed and stopped and begun its interlude. I take a full breath in and out, glad to step back for perspective. Here is a better link to May Ziadeh’s book, Fleurs de Reve. I will return to read this poem she wrote aloud next time, and I
I was happy to receive a request for an interview on NFReads.com, where I tell about my writing, me, my books, and inspirations. Here you can read my replies and for the sake of simplicity, I summed up each question asked in my response, each new answer signaled with an asterisk *. Interview With Author Jade Nicole Beals * Links to my two books of poetry I mentioned in the interview: * Moonflower (2018) * A Little Honey Sweetens The Flame (2021)
And you, my beautiful friend With the intoxicating smile?— They call me ‘Mimi’ In the hours of delirium; And love my eyes That point to the azure sky And my voice....home-like, ....pure, Spring gave me to May And I was born Then I was ordained, Now I am a priest. Now my name is.... And my light wings carry me Away from the Convent to the foreign lands. I love to see this Laughing Nile chaste, azure and I bathe my eyelashes, my heart, my golden forehead. * 1911 by May Ziadeh A Lebanese-Palestian poet, essayist, novelist, and translator.
I am making a book of poems I’ve read in Dream Flowers by May Ziadeh. I felt I’d like to draw some flowers and clouds and mist. * It is her first book of poems published under the penname, Isis Copia You beautiful Silver Wing Thrilling life, your name, Little child? “My name is Lilie For near a beautiful Lilac (Spring Harvest) In the garden there, My mother left me.” “Lilie, well! And you Fine-legged boy Black-eyed and sharp?” “Me? You want my name? Guess. It’s a nice name. But I had it on the sly Little Father is Finch And my Mummy Fauvette.” “And you, my two little ones Who are you?” “We are two friends Our story is understood.” * I am writing them in English using an online translator from the original French and any of my own understanding. These poems feel familiar, although I haven’t read any of them before, like a long forgotten memory drawing near. * Earlier today: A Poem Drapes Over My Shoulder
Dresse d and ready, as the sun is bright and one bird is whistling notes in the trees, I read again the poem that I read last night, the first from Dream Flowers (Fleurs de Reve) by May Ziadeh. This is the book I found accidentally then when I was looking online to see if there were more image-words of hers, having thought the book couldn’t be found anymore. The author name on the document is her penname. (Let’s forget about pennames ☺️) Fleurs de Reve by May Ziadeh (1911) (scroll down to pages, to pg 11) online translator ~ Sometime after I had gone to sleep last night, I felt the bed sink down just a little near my legs and feet. I saw that no one was there, and that Peeko hadn’t jumped onto the bed, and so I closed my eyes again. It was then I felt a gentle, slow movement on each of my ankles, one and then the other, like someone was touching them as if to comfort me or appreciate me, and I felt the touch more than the feeling of hands.
The book I thought was lost opens! May Ziadeh’s first book of poems in French. There are online translators to paste the words within; here’s a translator . I will read the first one tonight, scrolled down to page links to pg #11. (This isn’t the cover of the poetry book) * May Ziadeh - Fleurs de rêve, poems (1911) Ce volume est bien petit, sa valeur est encore moindre. Mais tout être ici-bas a ses palpitations, toute âme a ses élans et chacun de nous s’exprime comme il peut. Les fleurettes sauvages croissent à l’ombre des grands chênes séculaires ; le rossignol égrène, dans l’air calme du matin, l’harmonieux crescendo de son joyeux soprano, et le moineau vulgaire chante lui aussi, à sa manière ; et, pendant que le fleuve enfle la plaintive voix de ses grandes eaux mélancoliques, les naïves petites sources murmurent, avec une simplicité charmante, leur touchante romance monotone… This volume is very small, its value is even less. But every being on earth has its palpitations, every
‘Rumi tea’ with a splash of almond milk named by me after the poet Last night I dreamed I was looking at this tea cup of mine I had found packed away with others just like it in the garage. I had thought then, 'I don't think I'd really like to drink out of a small tea cup and packing these cups away will make my cabinets more spacious.' But I have known that I’ve been known to surprise myself, as I brought in that tea cup, cleansed it, and drank from it with bliss. In my dream, I was noticing the look of the cup and thought, seeing it fully, 'I will enter this dream.' Yesterday when I'd considered I might dream of the painting I'd like to paint before painting it, the thought came to me, 'I will dream the paint and then paint the dream.' The words sounded familiar and I wasn't sure if another artist had said them. I found this quote when I searched for my own words: 'I dream my painting and I paint my dream' – Vincent Van Gogh . An
~ I woke to the sky in its blue culmination and still early morning. Last night, I dreamed of two poets, Eavan Boland, whose last book I’d read recently and had passed away last year and Edna St. Vincent Millay; although Edna was born much earlier than Eavan, Eavan was an older woman in the dream and Edna was a young woman. I also dreamed of my great grandmother Rose who was born about a decade after Edna. I don’t remember what had happened in the dream, just the memory of these people.
I wished to give more books away and maybe find a novel to read as I hadn’t gotten into many novels at all in the most recent ones, although I do remember laughing at certain passages in Light In August by William Faulkner and needing to place a finger over my lips to not do so. Yesterday, I went to a nearby free library cabinet at the Common . I placed a couple books in the cabinet and looked through the ones that were inside, gladly exclaiming a few titles quietly aloud as there was no one nearby to hear me. I found then the most books to take home with me than I’d ever found. I lay them beside me on the bench with flowers and cars in the near distance, for a photo. Pride and Prejudice , Frankenstein , Three Cups Of Tea (a memoir) , Love In The Time Of Cholera , and The Ring . I will return there with more books I’ve wished to give away as I’d found more than I’d left behind. Afterwards, I noticed a large dark blue bin on the opposite bench and went to see what was within it only
Edna St. Vincent Millay Dear Gladys, To add to the good impression this early reply must give, I will proceed at once to answer your questions, (which you have probably forgotten you ever asked.) In the first question, as you will perhaps perceive, are two unpardonable insults: “Couldn’t you write something decidedly immoral (!) and, provided the verse was lovely, (!!) be just as fond of it as you are of this? --- that is of Renascence.” “ Couldn’t I write something decidedly immoral?” Certainly not, you shameless wench! “Provided the verse was lovely” --- Gr-r-r-r!!! [Yip?] !! Wow!!! Ah, Gladys Niles, you perfect dear! Yes, I could. Someday I probably will, and I shall be even fonder of it, I am sure. I love poetry in three different ways: -- intellectually (the skillful rhymes of Browning and the clever satires of Pope); spiritually, (the Ode on Immortality and the wonderful psalms of the Old Test- ament) and sensuously, (Swinburne, and Browning’s love poems, and the sonnets of Sha
I started with the thing I had remembered I’d lost and then found that the place where I had gotten it was to become the most natural focus of this one. The item will likely be in a future painting. I didn’t lose it again though; it’s just not yet on canvas. :) And here’s my second painting: The Dance of the City 11 x 14 acrylic paint on gallery wrapped canvas, can be hung with or without a frame. I had NYC in mind, specifically Greenwich Village, Manhattan, but the feeling can fit any city. This artwork is available to purchase on my Etsy shop . *
Asian history, art, poetry, and tea, continues on here as we celebrate Asian Heritage Month. I have written about Kahlil Gibran, had read his poem aloud, "The Astronomer.” Maybe less known is a woman poet who inspired him and they became close through the letters they wrote each other even though they had not met in person—May Ziade. I was not able to find her poetry easily, but I did find one; it is beautiful and songlike. She wrote in different languages including French, Italian, Arabic, and English; her first book was in French. And she was born exactly 100 years before me in February 1886! I enjoy looking at authors' birthdays. This poem in French, which she wrote under the pen name, Isis Copia, is from her book, Fleurs de Rêve (1910). I don't speak French, but I tried finding some English translations and information. I will include both the original French poem and a translation of it in English . À Mademoiselle C. Vos yeux si beaux, chère belle, Que leur r
I must have been mistaken; I thought we were getting more fire moons, but we will be in very normal Taurus for some time. “Never stop smiling ‘cause you never know who’s falling in love with your smile. Maybe they like your sad look too; get your own smile. I was trying to look mean, but I look more mythical. But that’s the door.
I am talking about my current writing project and the creative process, just under 20 mins, meant to be relaxing. :) You can play it in the browser directly on the blog. Just to clarify, after I remembered it was poetry month in April, I also forgot awhile and realized it again much later that night. Jade Nicole Beals · My Current Writing Project And The Creative Process
I wish to write something simple. I would like to put myself on the spot. I will think of my own dream tonight and rest within it after I go to bed. I will start with a spacious room, maybe a warm light teal one with hardwood floors and a high canopy bed that is draped above with sheer silk, a pair of comfortable, elegant blankets, and a side table with a decorative old radio that is turned off for now, and a slow, pattering sound, footsteps, a calm sea...💤
(Japanese Artwork) You might hear someone wonder aloud about how to understand poetry or its purpose; maybe you have, too. I believe that poetry can be appreciated naturally but is not really experienced only literally. Sometime after I thought of the title of this blog, Blush of Dawn and created it, I learned that pink skies in the morning in my part of the world meant a storm was coming and lots of wind, and for sailors, their “warning.” ‘Do I have to change my blog name now?’ I thought because I had intended it to be a sign of hope and beauty when one wakes up in the morning, and after that, my lovely thought became one of a rough, ugly storm throwing some very sweet sailors overboard so unfairly. But many years later, I considered these sorts of things: What could a storm bring? It is exciting. There can be hope, beauty, and a storm all in one; it doesn’t need to be so simple. Poetry can contain science; it can transcend it too and expand beyond scientific facts, and not just in