Dust & Snow

Stone soul who wonderingly gazes down on a tide of falsehoods, unfeeling stone who does not feel the deep winter’s cold that destroys the flesh, and sears the eyes.

She sees the lights and the bustle of the city that never dies; yet not living herself; she only knows of dust and ashes rising from the Seine, and the blowing snow.

-EJH

The Poetic Beauty Of Cœur De Pirate |La Beauté Poétique De Cœur De Pirate.

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Truly beautiful music is hard to find. I am always searching for new artists and sifting through popular media for the good stuff. One such artist that I have found is the Canadian Francophone singer Cœur De Pirate, (In English this translates to 'Pirate Heart')  her music and poetic lyrics are amazing, I have been listening her songs nearly non-stop for about 2 months now. Not all of her music is in french, she also has english language music as well.

Some of my favorite songs are:

  • Place de la République
  • Comme Des Enfants
  • Oublie-moi
  • La Petite Mort
  • Tu Oublieras Mon Nom

 

I am in the process of learning to speak and write french, and as each new word or phrase comes into clarity, I will notice the word in one of the french artists music I have been listening to, it is like a little light comes on in my head when I recognize the word. What started out as a way to learn more french by trying to immerse myself in the music and culture, has become a new found love of French language music. I have been listening to Cœur De Pirate, Stanislas, and Jacques Brel for several months now.

The music of Coeur De Pirate is unique in its mix of heartfelt poetic expression and great piano work, this is the kind of music I love no matter what the language of choice is. This is what music should be.

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An Offering Of Pearlescent Debris

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Sawgrass riptide, silicate crystals smeared across my toes,

the pressed down deepened holes in the burning white,

where I run down to the harder pressed darker expanse of shallow sea.

 

There are gulls on the edges vision, screeching, diving, salty spray of feathers,

darting, running, scattering sandpipers leave tiny scratches on the hard-packed sandy horizon.

crushed bits of shell, tossed up to my cool twisting toes by the urgent surf, a gift of shattered pearlescent debris.

EJH

 

Time Thief.

Darkness beneath the trees; twilight falls slowly down to the mossy leaf strewn earth, while I wait hidden between the dark void of the sky, and the sharp eyes of my pursuers, I keep my breath low and patient, my gaze even and wary. Time crawls across my rifle barrel and drips from my lips. It is the only real currency in this old world, it is the only thing we have to spend. Your time can be wasted away, or given away, bartered away, and taken away.

Movement crests the ridge below, and two men push their shoulders up against the deepening sky, moving silently into view like small black beetles crawling over a branch… They are looking for me.
They have been found.
Crosshairs divide features from darkness, silence from an echoing report. Unspent time… Unspent time.

EJH

Sad Velvet

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There are things slipping away from me.

Little birds that don’t sit on my chair-rails; and a dog that never comes to me when I forget to call her. Maybe I should put the phone back on the wall… I think enough time has passed.

When the bell rings, I go down to see if there is anyone there, but there never is. I wonder if I should close the shop up early tonight?

All the trinkets are gone from the shelves, or they are drowning in their own private blanket of dust. Perhaps I will put up the ‘closed’ sign; and take a walk.

The night is just a piece of sad velvet after all.

Poetry In A Glass.

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Can sunlight be distilled from wasted years? Can hope be rendered from the detritus of dreams, or peace be found between twisted broken bodies on the battlefield?

Poetry drips from broken oak staves where malcontent has been left to ferment.

The Source Of Poetry

Poetry is not something that simply spills from the mind unbidden.

No, Poetry is an essence that travels from one being to the next; it is shared by ingestion of life.

A life absent from the poetic expressions found in the trees, the fall colors, the simple poetry of life will never give birth to anything more than a crusty paper of a lie.
One who lives on a steady diet of hard truth, dipped deep in the stone well of natural poetry will become suffused with the stuff until it weeps from the very pores, and spills dark ink upon the page already stained with tears.

-Ezra

Poetic Coffee

Poetic Coffee by Ezra Hilyer
Poetic Coffee, a photo by Ezra Hilyer on Flickr.

There is something deeply poetic about coffee. The grinder pulverizing the beans, the ritual tamping of the fresh grounds, and that beautiful smell when the first coal-black drops of liquid cascade into the cup.

When the steamer sings its song; and the union of sound, sight, and savor meet in that moment -such is the stuff of perfection.

I remember when my romance with Coffee started; it was on my first visit to Starbucks, in Portland Oregon in 2002. Before this; coffee was something that only came in luke-warm pots, and had to be dosed heavily with sugar, and then mixed with milk.
It was a part of the day, but never the hightlight.

Upon that first visit; I entered a new world. I remember how the entire building was drowning in the heavy scent of the sacred bean, and the sounds of the drinks being prepaired was an alien music.

Throughout the rest of that 2 week visit, I took the chance to return there many times, and it started what has become a lifelong love.

When I returned home, there were no local coffee shops nearby, at the time the nearest Starbucks was over 100 miles away.
So, over the next few years; the only time I would get to visit Portland would be heavily filled with visits to coffee shops. I would wander the city always with a cup in my hand.

Eventually, a small shop opened up in Warren, (20 miles from where I then lived) and I could then expirence good coffe regularly, and would sometimes make the trip into town just for a sip of that heavenly liquid.

I even took my future wife Ami, on our fist date to that small local coffee shop; and not long after that, she started to work as a Barista there. Many of my memories of our dating life are laced with the scent of coffee, and the whirr of the machines.

Last year Ami bought me a Breville Espresso machine for my birthday, and from her expirence as a Barista; she taught me to prepare all of my favorite drinks. The world has come full-circle, now I can re-live those memories, and moments whenever I take the time to start the ritual process, and turn those dark roasted beans into sacred powder.

-Ezra