Edinburgh

Edinburgh
A quick stop at the Angel of the North on the way to wintery Edinburgh, November, 2010

Tuesday, 30 November 2010

24 Hours

24 Hours
of new born ice on aged rock,
melting, ever,
farther from mystic beginning
into vital flooding-life.
24 Hours of falling,
a cold blanket,
on every inch of stony street,
'til I wrapped up in the warmth of you
and fast became slush-you should have warned me-
and was shoveled away.

~Nia Rhein~


















...Scribbled this on the bus ride home from a weekend trip to Edinburgh, Scotland. One day became unexpectedly wonderful-one of the [love]liest weekends of my life- and then ended, as these things always seem to do.

A Knight's Poetic Journey

This is what came out of a sleepless night and some searching into the literary and mythical history of Gog and Magog that my high school English teacher, Frank Brown led me to; I would invite anyone seeking inspiration to investigate these figures as well:
Lost in the deep thick of a forest, green,
I, weary from wandering, stopped to take rest.
Beneath rain-kissed branches,
laden with fairy fruit, dripping with steam,
I sighed for sleep and fell, at once, into a dream.

A voice came ech'ing o'er the chilly air,
singing a spell to wake me from sleep.
The emerald trees began to murmer,
their strange music whistling through the breeze in my hair.
A far off maiden was whispering my name in a meadow,
I knew not where.

I broke through the thicket to find her,
my armor flashing in the moonlight, pale.
At last there came a clearing in the woodland, wild,
And a muteness befell me, so lost was my will.
Before me danced giants, trampling the green mantle bare.

Clad in aprons of flapping hide,
like ancient stones of milk-white marble,
men or beasts they leapt through fire,
in time with tongues of dragon-breathed flame.
And in their midst a girl was standing,
A garland of petals through her golden hair tied.

My brow was damp with melted dew,
my brave skin torn by bramble and rock,
when she saw me hiding and bid me come.
I took up my sword, but at once set it down
And went running, instead, to her eyes' piercing hue.

And the earth seemed to rumble
when seeing me they laughed
in tones afore unheard by any man.
We danced in the deep as if old, long lost friends
while streams were hissing and sloshing froth.

Their hands were stained, but not with blood-
with juice of berries, warmed in hot sun.
But thieving light came and morning broke.
The milk-white marble was turned to stone
And in place of my giants four mountains stood.

And she, in an instant, vanish'd from sight,
from the distant wood where we danced away night
But in her place a trinket I found-
an amaranth swaying, still casting a spell.
Now here I sit beneath four mountains, tall,
guarding this flower 'til next night shall fall...

I chose the image of the amaranth because it's usually red or purple, a mythical symbol of love and immortality, and then after i wrote the poem I found this verse, which got me thinking about my image of giants:
Look at the amaranth:
on tall mountains it grows,
on the very stones and rocks
and places inaccessible.

I wrote this intending it to be set to music, but in this early draft it turned out to be not especially settable rhythmically. Then I tried messing with format a bit without destroying the dramatic flow, but it changed the character of my giants, and even my knight-
A wanderer lost in a forest, green,
Beneath rain-kissed branches dripping with steam,
I sighed for sleep and fell into a dream.

I woke to the echoing fae-kissed air,
and I saw through the thicket before me out there-
Giants were trampling the green mantle bare.

Clad in aprons of flapping hide,
they were tearing down trees when someone cried
and I saw in their midst a maiden was tied.

The earth seemed to rumble when seeing me they laughed
in tones long reserved for those of their craft.
Through dragon-breathed flame was my only path.

But a thief stole the night and morning broke.
They turned to stone and I awoke.
In place of my giants stood mountains in smoke.

And she, in an instant, vanish'd from sight,
from the distant wood where we met in the night
but a trinket I found in her place, bathed in light-

An amaranth swaying, as if to me call.
Now here I sit beneath four mountains, tall,
guarding this flower 'til next night shall fall.

I liked this second attempt, although still probably a bit long for him to set musically, especially on a time crunch with the music due in November... but then I started daydreaming about my friend, about home, about being across this great, big ocean (as I'm now living in England), and, ultimately, wishing it would dry up so it might be easier to cross over.
I wake and yet feel still asleep
'til off I drift into a dream
where giants tear down heavy trees,
through dancing flames forge golden beams.
I beg them, "Stop! and quiet, be-
drink up this brook, this cursed stream.
When it is dry then I may reach
the far off one who calls to me."

Funny how the simplest, most honest expressions of ourselves sometimes turn out to be the most special.

Away, Home or, A Way Home

Away, Home-

The graduation anthem of the Westminster Choir College class of 2010

text by Nia Rhein, music by Michael Fili

Bear me gently from this place,
Carry me away on the harmony of your transcendent wing.
I will keep its pulsing rhythm,
And find my way back here again.

Take the kiss of my sweet song,
Wrap me up in our melody-the one we wrote.
I will part from you for now,
And find my way back home again


http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=24305685&v=app_2392950137#!/video/video.php?v=576190682334 

Beginning, Again

It's been such a long while
since I gave my self to you,
took you in the tips of fingers
slippery with nervous sweat,
and sat naked, waiting.
Drenched only in ink,
stamping this world with impermanence,
I might dissolve, I might wash away,
but I might not, patient pen.

 

I think this is a good way to christen this new blog of mine... after years of nothing really I suddenly started creative writing again in the spring of 2010, and a flood has been pouring out ever since. The poem above was a reaction to my liberation from writers' sleep. I'll call it that, rather than a block, because it was an awakening, or a reawakening, of something in myself I hoped for a very long time that I hadn't lost. I think in many ways that's why I've started this, so that I can keep track of these thoughts as they come, keep myself honest. I hope whomever stumbles upon this, if anyone at all, will enjoy the words of a girl who just writes what she feels and sometimes sees, and tries to understand by thinking it all out loud. Sometimes it happens when I sing, but other times it happens with a quill and ink, or, in this case, a computer keyboard.

 

 

 I'd like to introduce you to my new home. I've been settling in Across the Pond for some time now, and York and I are having a delicious love affair. I love how small the city is, but I don't feel trapped. Upon first arriving I took a look around and saw that it's big enough that I will not feel big in it, that I will never have an excuse to feel bored, but it's small enough that I think I can secure a place for myself while I'm here, and I think I will be able to study and experience what the city has to offer in the little time I have-one year. The pace here is perfect for me. I find it almost luxuriously liberating, and I have, at long last, adequate time to focus on the music I love. I even get to spare a bit of time each day to experience this beautifully different part of the world and its adorable eccentricities. For now I will simply say that this place is magical, and, for whatever reason, I feel right being here.

Some views around campus and city centre. I seek to disprove the theory that England is dreary and sun-deprived with this first collection of photos : )

Step 2: Find someone to stand on this bridge with me and re-enact the Aniron scene from Fellowship of the Ring

   "The Quiet Place". Also my favorite place on campus. The sign above this bench reads "In celebration of the spiritual nature of all people"
I have officially exchanged the black squirrels of Princeton for black swans of York







Medieval church-turned night club. Let's hope future nights out will yield an exciting blog entry or two.



An evening view of my new home for the year. My flat is in the middle block.
Found this in a shop window- utter proof that I am where I belong.
 
I thank God for these signs every time I avoid looking the wrong way and getting hit by oncoming traffic. These are every bit a part of this American's Guide to Survival in Britain
.